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Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part I., November, 1888, to April, iS 



Copyright, 1889, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 

Library, Univ. oi 
North C«roi'»i» 




Six Months — November, 1888, to April, 1889. 



Agassiz Association, The Harlan H. Ballard 74 

Ancient and Modern Artillery. (Illustrated by E. J. Meeker, and from ) 

photographs) \ Lieut - W - R - Hamilton 436 

Ann Mary — Her Two Thanksgivings. (Illustrated by E.W. Kemble) . Mary E. Wilkins 33 

Art Critic, An. Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) Lizbeth B. Comins 29 

Artillery, Ancient and Modern. (Illustrated by E. J. Meeker, and from ) 

photographs) \ LieuL W - R - Hamilton 436 

Autrefois et Aujourd'hui. Verses. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) .... Tudor Jenks 278 

Aztec Fragments. Picture, drawn by J. G. Francis 197 

Baby's Bead, The. Poem Harriet Prescott Spofford .... 425 

Ballad of a Runaway Donkey, The. Verses. (Illustrated and engrossed \ 

by A. Brenon) \ Emilie P °« l "°" 2 9§ 

Bells of Ste. Anne, The. (Illustrated by Henry Sandham and others) . . . .Mary Hartwell Catherwood. . 91 

184, 257, 341, 415 
Biceps Grimlund's Christmas Vacation. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards > 

and H. Sandham) \ Hjalmar H. Boyesen 122 

Bill of Fare for December, A. Picture, drawn by Margaret Johnson 199 

Bill of Fare for November, A. Picture, drawn by Margaret Johnson 54 

Birds' Farewell, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 68 

Bird that Never Knew He was Caught, The. Verses. (Illustrated ) 

, . t, . } Alice W-elhnpton Rollins. ... 43s 

by A. Brenon) } 6 ^ JJ 

Bit of Color, A. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Sarah Orrie Jewett 456 

Brownies' Snow Man, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 392 

Bunny Stories, The. (Illustrated by Culmer Barnes) John H. Jewell .228, 306, 385, 467 

Carving Over the Sally-port, The. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren and > 

., . > John J. a Becket . . - 10 

others) ) 

Charlotte Bronte. Poem. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 131 

Coal Age, The. Picture, drawn by C. F. Siedle 295 

Cob Family and Rhyming Eben, The Fanny M. Johnson 445 

Composite Cat, A. Verses. (Illustrated by A. Brenon) Maria J. Hammond 69 

Consolation. Poem Walter Learned 363 

Contentment. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary N. Prescott . 155 

Cross, The. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 414 

Cup and Saucer. (Illustrated by P. Audra) William Theodore Peters . . . 314 

Curious History of a Message, The. (Illustrated by E. H. Blashfield ■ 

**rank R. Stockton . 

I ) 
> Fn 

and C T. Hill) 

_ Daddy Jake, the Runaway. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) Joel Chandler Harris . . .323, 426 

d Discontented Snow-flake, The. Verses Helen Gray Cone 297 

"? Distances in Space, The. (Illustrated) D. C. Robertson 194 

^> Doll-house, The Story of a. (Illustrated by the Author) . Katharine Pyle 448 

"" Downhill with a Vengeance. (Illustrated by H. Sandham) W. H. Gilder 379 



Dream-horses. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary Hallock Foote 3 

Elsie's Invention. (Illustrated from photographs) Charles Ledyard Norton .... 65 

"Fauntleroy" and Elsie Leslie Lyde. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch, and \ 

r , . , , / Lucy C.Lillie 403 

irom photographs) ) J ° 

Fossil Raindrops, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Harriet Prescotl Spofford . . . 330 

Getting Acquainted. Verses. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Sydney Dayre 384 

Golden Casque, The. (Illustrated by Robert Blum) Lucy G. Paine 210 

Gold that Grew by Shasta Town, The. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) . Joaquin Miller 243 

Great Japan : The Sunrise Kingdom. (Illustrated) Lda C. Hodnett 30 

Heavenly Guest, The. Poem Celia Thaxter 464 

He Wrote to the Rats. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Julian Ralph 371 

Home-made Scare, A. Verse. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Margaret Eytinge 455 

K Words by Mary J. Jacques ) 
Housekeeping Songs. (Illustrated by Miss L. B. Humphrey). .< -, .,_,._ r HI \ 7 2 ' J 5°' 22 7 

How Antonio Saved the King. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Elisabeth Abererombie 442 

Imitation Japanese. Verses. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) . . . Clara G. Dolliver 120 

In the Cellar. (Illustrated by Oliver Herford) Martha W. Hitchcock 59 

In the Town of the Pied Piper. (Illustrated by A. Brenon and R. F. > 

Bunner) . . \ Harriet Lewis Bradley 200 

Invitation, An, Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Lizbeih B. Cotnins 280 

Japan, Ten Weeks In. (Illustrated by R. Blum, and from photographs) . . . . Mabel Loomis Todd 106 

Japan : The Sunrise Kingdom. (Illustrated) Jda C. Hodnett 30 

Jingles 7, 29, 151, 199, 336, 396 

La Grande Francoise. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Edgar Mayhew Bacon 132 

La Musique. Poem. (Illustrated from an engraving) Edith M, Thomas . 105 

Lassoing a Sea-lion. (Illustrated by D. C Beard and W. Paris) John R. Coryell 273 

Lesson in Grammar, A. Verses Margaret Eytinge 67 

Little Caller, A. Verse Mary E. Wilkins 45 1 

Little Christmas Spy, The. Poem. (Illustrated by the frontispiece) Helen Gray Cone 83 

"Little Lord Fauntleroy" as a Play, in London. (Illustrated) Cecil IV. Franklyn 8 

Little Saint Elizabeth. (Head-piece by R. B. Birch) Frances Hodgson Burnett . 133, 204 

Loaf of Peace, The. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies and Jessie P. Hill) Octave Thanct 48 

Making Cake. Song 5 Words ^ Mar - V J - Jac( '" es I 72 

I Music by Theresa C. Holmes ) 

Message, The Curious History of a. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 84 

Mikado, Seeing the Real. (Illustrated by R. Blum and W. Taber, from \ 

, . , N r Arthur L. Shumway 26; 

photographs) ^ -' J 

Modern Middy, A. (Illustrated by H. Pennington) Jolm H Gibbons, U. S. A T . . . 287 

My Childhood's Enchantress. Poem. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Lucy Larcom 432 

My Lady-bird's Chamber. Song \ Words h ? "f9 J - Jac °™ X I50 

I Music by Theresa C. Holmes ) 

My Uncle Peter. Verses Emma A. Opper 193 

Naughty Claude. Verse James Whitcomb Riley 199 

Ned's " Please." Jingle • R. M. S. 336 

Novel Christmas Presents. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent) Elisabeth IV. Champney.... 154 

November in the Garden. Poem Grace Winthrop 47 

On Errands for Santa Claus. Picture, drawn by F. H. Lungren 137 

Our Best Advertisement. Picture, from a photograph 286 

Our Polly. Verse. (Illustrated from photographs) 151 

Pictures 4'. 54. '37. 197. '99> z°9, 235, 286, 295, 391, 445 

Pictures for Little German Readers. Drawn by Lizbeth B. Comins 445 

Popular Poplar Tree, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Katharine Pyle) Blanche Willis Howard- . . . 19S 

Problem in Threes, A. Verses Eudora S. Bumstead 280 

Pygmy Fleet, The. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Tudor Jenks 163 

Queen's Navy, The. (Illustrated from photographs) Lieut. F. H. Smith, R. A'. . . 16 

Rainy-day Bag, The M. V. Worstell 157 

Report Concerning the " King's Move Puzzle " 158, 478 


Rolling Pnr, The. Song \Z 0tA ^ y T yJ 'r7rT \ **7 

I Music by 1 lieresa t. Holmes ) ' 

Rose in a Queer Place, A. (Illustrated) Prof. Frederick Starr 296 

Routine of the Republic, The. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden and others). .Edmund Alton 55 

13S, 217,281,348, 452 
Runaway Donkey, The Ballad of a. (Illustrated and engrossed by A. 

/ Emilie Poulsson . 
Brenon. ) ) 

Ruth's Birthday. Poem N. P. Babcock 15 

Sailor Boy Dromios. (Illustrated by F. H. Schell) H. H. Clark, U. S. N 374 

Sally's Valentine. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Lizbeth B. Comins 318 

Seeing the Real Mikado. (Illustrated by R. Blum and W. Taber from > 

, . , . ? Arthur L. Shumway 265 

photographs) ) - J 

Shinney on the Ice. Picture, drawn by F. H. Lungren . . 209 

Silver Heart, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Mrs. Holman Hunt 97 

Sixteenth Century Christmas, A. Play. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) .... Charles A. Murdock 145 

Six Weeks' Imprisonment, A. (Illustrated by Louise W. Jackson) Sara Wyer Farwell 476 

Sleepy Little School, A. Verses Malcolm Douglas 373 

Snow Flowers, The. Poem Arlo Bates 245 

Somebody's Valentine. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Jessie McDermott 311 

Stanley : The White Pasha. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks 246 

Storm-bound Sparrows. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent) W. Lewis Eraser 358 

Story of a Doll-house, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Katharine Pyle 44S 

" Such a Comical World ! " Picture, from a photograph 41 

Sun's Sisters, The. (Illustrated by Oliver Herford) Hjalmar H. Boyesen 331 

Sweet Memories. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent) John R. Coryell 395 

Ten Weeks in Japan. (Illustrated by R. Blum, and from photographs) Mabel Loomis Todd 106 

To My Pet. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 414 

Valentine. A. Song 5 Words b ? Ali " Wellington Rollins > ^ 

I Music by Kale Douglas IViggin $ 

Waiting for Santa Claus. Play. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Eudora S. Bumstead 222 

Washington as an Athlete Mrs. Bttrton Harrison 337 

Western Meadow-lark, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. Thompson 63 

What Befell One Christmas-tree M. F. S. 317 

When the Brigade Came In. (Illustrated) Sarah J. Piichard 364 

White Pasha, The. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks 246 

Wood-carving. (Illustrated from panels carved by the Author and others) . . .John Todd Hill 41 

Youth of Ancient Rome, A. (Illustrated from photographs) Eleanor C. Lewis 353 


" Portrait of a Young Girl," from a painting by George Romney, facing Title-page of Volume — "The Little 
Christmas Spy," by R. B. Birch, facing page 83 — " Remember the Tale of the Pygmy Fleet," by R. B. Birch, facing 
page 163 — " If You 're Waking, Call Me Early," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 243 — " Under the Mistle- 
toe," by Frank French, facing page 323 — " Elsie Leslie Lyde," from a photograph, facing page 403. 

Plays and Music. 

Housekeeping Songs. (Illustrated by Miss L. B. Humphrey) . . . ) ' 7 • C V ( 

( Music by Theresa C. Holmes ) 

My Lady-bird's Chamber 72 

Making Cake 150 

The Rolling Pin 227 

A Sixteenth Century Christmas. Play. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Charles A. Murdock 145 

Waiting for Santa Claus. Play. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Eudora S. Bumstead 222 

.,,.,.„ < Words by Alice Wellington Rollins } 

A Valentine. Song ^ ' " J. ^66 

I Music by Kate Douglas IViggin ) ' 
Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.) 

Introduction — Nutting Song — The Pigeons of St. Mark's — Birds' Store-houses — Nuts and Mountains — The 
Spider and the Wasp — "An 111 Weed Needs No Nursing" — Why Does the Nettle Sting? — Another Big 



Grape-vine — The Deacon and the School-ma'am (illustrated), 70; Introduction — Blow, Wind, Blow! — Un- 
handy Money — Interesting to Babies — Sand-fiddlers — Patent Soap Bubbles — Which is Which ? — What the 

Knowing Poet Heard Puss Say, 152; Introduction — Suppose — A Weighty Matter — That Spinning Egg 

Money Findings — Pet Humming-birds in Winter — My Bird " Dot " — True Story of a Brown Thrush — The 
First Breakfast of the New Year (picture), 234; Introduction — The Bold Violet — Clever Yellow-birds — All 
Right! — Grapes that Come High — A Good Example — and Why? — How Grasshoppers Jump (illustrated) — 
Spider Silk — A Message, 312; Introduction — George Washington's Little Joke — A Thoughtful Govern- 
ment — Fancy Feet — Pussy-willows the Year Round — Tossed Off — An Ostrich Race — A New Town in 
Africa — Pussy and the Ball (picture), 390 ; Introduction — Large Kites — Must the Chinaman or the Chinese 
Go? — An Adventure in the Quicksands — Tire Largest Egg in the World (illustrated), 472. 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 77, 156, 236, 316, 397, 474 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 79, 159, 239, 319, 399, 479 

Editorial Notes 236, 316 


Vol. XVI. 

NOVEMBER, 1888. 

No. 1. 


By Mary Hallock Foote. 

THERE is a little girl who hangs upon her 
mother's chair, getting her head between her 
mother's work and the light, and begs for pictures. 

She expects her mother to make these pictures 
on some bit of paper treasured for the purpose, 
which she offers, with a book to rest it on, and a 

flowing mane and tail, and his legs must be flung 
out, fore and aft, so that in action he resembles one 
of those " crazy-bugs" (so we children used to call 
them) that go scuttling like mad things across the 
still surface of a pond. In other respects he may 
be as like an ordinary pony as Mamma and the 

stubby pencil notched with small tooth-marks, the stubby pencil can make him. But the young per- 

record of moments of perplexity when Polly was 
making her own pictures. 

It is generally after a bad failure of her own 
that she comes to her mother. The pang of dis- 
appointment with her own efforts is apt to sharpen 
her temper a little ; it does not make Polly more 
patient with her mother's mistakes that she makes 
mistakes herself. But between critic and artist, 
with such light as the dark-lantern of a little girl's 
head permits to fall upon the paper, the picture 
gets made somehow, and before it is finished 
Polly's heart will be so full of sunshine that she 
will insist upon comparisons, most flattering to 
the feelings of her artist, between their different 
essays at the same subject. 

It is a subject they are both familiar with ; and 
it is wonderful, considering the extent of Polly's 
patronage, that her artist's work does not better 

It is always a picture of a young person on 
horseback; a young person about the age of 
Polly, but much handsomer and more grown-up 

son on the pony must be drawn in profile, because 
Polly can not make profiles, except horses' pro- 
files ; her young persons always look straight out 
of the picture as they ride along, and the effect, at 
full speed, on a horse with his legs widely extended 
from his body, is extremely gay and nonchalant. 

With the picture in her hand, the little girl will 
go away by herself and proceed to "dream and 
to dote." 

She lives in a horse-y country. 

Horses in troops or "bands" go past by the 
trails, on the one side of the river or the other. 
Sometimes they ford where the water is breast- 
high over the bar. It is wild and delicious to hear 
the mares whinnying to their foals in mid-stream, 
and- the echo of their voices, with the rushing of 
the loud water, pent among the hills. 

Often the riders who are in charge of the band 
encamp for the night on the upper bend of the 
river, and the red spark of their camp-fire glows 
brightly about the time the little girl must be 

going to bed ; for it is in spring or fall the bands of 
And the horse must be a pony with a horses go up into the hills or down into the valleys, 
Copyright, 18S8, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 



or off, one does not know where, — to a " round- 
up," perhaps, where each stockman counts his 
own, and puts his brand on the young colts. Over 
the hills, where Polly and her big brother go wild- 
flower hunting, horses wander loose, and look down 
from the summits, mere specks, like black mice, 
against the sky ; they are plainly to be seen from 
miles away, for there is not a tree anywhere upon 
these hills. Sometimes a single horse, the chief- 
tain of a troop, will stand alone on a hill-top and 
take a look all the wide country round, and call, in 
his splendid voice, like "sounding brass," to the 
mares and colts that have scattered in search of 
alkali mud to lick, or just to show, perhaps, that 
they are able to get on without his lordship. He 

the pretty ones, the ones she calls hers. They 
stare at her from under breezy forelocks, and no 
doubt think themselves much finer creatures than 
little girls who have only two feet to go upon. And 
the little girl thinks so, too — or so it would seem; 
for every evening, after sunset, when she runs about 
the house bareheaded, she plays she is a horse 
herself. And not satisfied with being a horse, she 
plays she is a rider, too. Such a complex ideal 
as that surely never came into the brain of a 
"cayuse," for all his big eyes and his tangle of 
hair which Polly thinks so magnificent. 

The head and the feet of Polly and her tossing 
locks are pure horse; that is evident at a glance, 
as she prances past the window. But the clinched, 


will call, and if his troop do not answer, he will 
condescend to go a little way to meet them, halt- 
ing and inquiring with short whinnies what they 
are about. Sometimes, in spite of discipline, they 
will compel him to go all the way to meet them ; 
for even a horse soon tires of dignity on a hill-top, 
all alone, with no one to see how it becomes him. 
Polly likes to meet stray horses on her walks, 
close enough to see their colors and tell which are 

controlling hands are the hands of the rider — a 
thrilling combination on a western summer even- 
ing, when the brassy sunset in the gate of the 
cafion is like a trumpet-note, and the cold, pink 
light on the hills is keen as a bugle-call, and the 
very spirit of " boots and saddle " is in the wind 
that gustily blows up from the plains, turning all 
the poplars white, and searching the quiet house, 
from room to room, for any laggard stay-indoors. 




Within a mile of the house, in the canon which 
Polly calls home, there is a horse-ranch, in a 
lovely valley opening toward the river. All around 
it are these treeless hills that look so barren, and 
feed so many wild lives. The horses have a beauti- 
ful range, from the sheltered valley, up the gulches 
to the summits of the hills, and down again to the 
river to drink. The men live in a long, low cabin, 
attached to a corral much bigger than the cabin, 
and have an extremely horse-y time of it. 

I should n't be surprised if it were among Polly's 
dreams to be one of a picked company of little girl- 
riders, in charge of a band of long-tailed ponies, just 
the right size for little girls to manage ; to follow the 
ponies over the hills all day, and at evening to fetch 
water from the river and cook their own little-girl 
suppers in the dingy cabin by the corral ; to have 
envious visits from other little girls, and occasion- 
ally to go home and tell Mother all about it. 

Now, in this country of real horses there were 
not many play-horses, and these few not of the first 
quality. Hobby-horses in the shops of the town 
were most trivial in size, meant only for riders of 
a very tender age. Some of them were merely 
heads of horses, fastened to a seat upon rockers, 
with a shelf in front to keep the inexperienced 
rider in his place. 

There were people in the town, no doubt, who 
had noble rocking-horses for their little six-year- 
olds, but they must have sent for them on pur- 
pose ; the storekeepers did not '' handle " this 

So Polly's papa, assisted by John Brown, the 
children's most delightful companion, and slave, 
and story-teller, concluded to build a hobby-horse 
that would outdo the hobby-horse of commerce. 
(Brown was a modest, tender-hearted man, who 
had been a sailor off the coast of Norway, among 




the islands and fiords, a miner where the Indians 
were " bad," a cowboy, a ranchman ; and he was 
now irrigating the garden and driving the team in 
the canon). 

Children like best the things they invent and 
make themselves, and plenty of grown people 
are children in this respect ; they like their own 
vain imaginings better than some of the world's 

But Polly's rocking-horse was no "vain thing," 
although her father and John did have their own 
fun out of it before she had even heard of it. 

His head wasn't "made of pease-straw," nor 
his tail " of hay," but in his own way he was quite 
as successful a combination. 

His eyes were two of Brother's marbles. They 
were not mates, which was a pity, as they were set 
somewhat closely together, so you could n't help 
seeing them both at once ; but as one of them soon 
dropped out, it did n't so much matter. His mane 
was a strip of long leather fringe. His tail was 
made up of precious contributions extorted from 
the real tails of Billy and Blue Pete and the team- 
horses, and twined most lovingly together by John, 
the friend of all the parties to the transfer. 

The saddle was a McClellan tree, which is the 
frame-work of a kind of man's saddle ; a wooden 
spike, fixed to the left side of it and covered with 
leather, made a horn, and the saddle-blanket was a 
Turkish towel. 

It was rainy weather, and the canon days were 

short, when this unique creation of love and friend- 
ship — which are things more precious, it is to be 
hoped, even than horseflesh — took its place 
among Polly's idols, and was at once clothed on 
with all her dreams of life in action. 

When she mounted the hobby-horse she mounted 
her dream-horse as well ; they were as like as Don 
Quixote's helmet and the barber's basin. 

She rode him by firelight, in the last half hour be- 
fore bedtime. She rode him just after breakfast in 
the morning. She " took " to him when she was in 
trouble, as older dream-riders take to their favorite 
" hobbies." She rocked and she rode, from rest- 
lessness and wretchedness into peace, from unsatis- 
fied longings into temporary content, from bad 
tempers into smiles and sunshine. 

She rode out the winter, and she rode in the 
wild and windy spring. She got well of the 
measles pounding back and forth on that well- 
worn seat. She took cold afterward, before the 
winds grew soft, experimenting with draughts in 
a corner of the piazza. 

Now that summer gives to her fancies and her 
footsteps a wider range, the hard-worked hobby 
gets an occasional rest. (Often he is to be seen 
with his wooden nose resting on the seat of a chair 
which is bestrewed with clover blossoms, withered 
wild-roses, and bits of grass ; for Polly, like other 
worshipers of graven images, believes that her 
idol can eat and drink and appreciate substantial 
offerings.) But when the dream grows too strong, 


the picture too vivid, — not Mamma's picture, 
but the one in the child's heart, — she takes to 
the saddle again, and the horse-hair switch and 
the leather fringes float upon the wind, and her 
fancies mount, far above the lava bluffs that con- 
fine her vision. 

Will our little girl-riders be as happy on their 
real horses, when they get them, as they are upon 
their dream-horses? Is the actual possession of 
"back-hair" and the wearing of long petticoats 
more blissful than the knot, hard-twisted, of the 
ends of a silk handkerchief, which the child-woman 
binds about her brows when she walks, like Troy's 
proud dames whose garments sweep the ground, 
in the skirt of her mother's "cast-off gown"? 

It depends upon the direction these imperious 
dream-horses will take with our small women. 

Will the rider be in bondage to the steed ? Heaven 
forbid ! for dream-horses make good servants but 
very bad masters. Will they bear her fast and far, 
and will she keep a quiet eye ahead and a constant 
hand upon the rein ? Will they flag and flounder 
down in the middle-ways, where so many of us 
have parted with our dream-steeds and taken the 
footpath, consoled to find that we have plenty of 
company and are not altogether dismayed ? The 
dream-horses carry their child-riders beyond the 
mother's following, so that the eyes and the heart 
ache with straining after the fleeting vision. 

It is better she should not see too much nor 
too far along the way they go, since "to travel 
joyfully is better than to arrive." 

If only they could know their own "blessed- 
ness " while the way is long before them ! 

Good horses, bad horses, what 

time o' day ? 
One o'clock, two o'clock, off 

and away ! " 


•i y*\ All the children who have read 
^B Mrs. Burnett's pretty story, " Little 
Lord Fauntleroy," will, I feel sure, 
like to hear how it was made into a 
play and acted in London. It hap- 
J^ft pened that a gentleman was of the 
opinion that the tale would make a 
good play, and so he had one, written 
by himself, acted in a London theater, 
and he called it " Little Lord Fauntle- 
roy." Now, Mrs. Burnett could not 
legally use the same title for another 
version, so she called her play the 
" Real Little Lord Fauntleroy." How- 
ever, before hers was produced, the first play was 
withdrawn, because the English law said that it 
was not legal to act it ; and every one was pleased 
that Mrs. Burnett should be able to play her own 
piece, made out of her own book, without any rival 
in the way. 

Mrs. Burnett was very fortunate in getting Mrs. 
Kendal — a clever English actress, with children 
of her own — to see to the play being properly 
prepared, and to teach the part of the little lord 
to the child who was to act it. This was a nice 
little girl named Vera Beringer, who had once 
played successfully a small part in her own mother's 
play, called " Tares." The part of " Lord Faunt- 
leroy" was a very long one, and Vera was only a 
very little girl ; but she must have taken great pains 
to learn it, and Mrs. Kendal must have taken great 
pains to teach her how to act it. 

At last, the parts were all learned, the actors 
had rehearsed till they were quite perfect, and so 
the day for the first performance came. It took 
place in Terry's Theater, — a pretty little theater, 
said to be the smallest in London, but holding a 
great many people, nevertheless. At night, ladies 
and gentlemen wear evening-dress in the stalls, 
dress-circle, and private boxes, which gives a very 
bright and cheerful appearance to the theater. 
" Little Lord Fauntleroy " made his first bow at a 
matinee performance, however, so ladies kept on 
their bonnets : and, to tell the truth, at times only 
little Vera's head was visible above certain high 
hats in the audience. 

When the orchestra struck up, every one set- 
tled down to gaze and listen, and soon the curtain 

By Cecil V*. Franklvn. 

rose, and we saw " Mrs. Errol's" modest little room. 
Such a pretty, winsome Mamma she was, too I 
dressed all in black, though, and in great grief 
because she had just heard that nearly all her 
money had been lost, and she would not be able 
to provide properly for her dear child. He did 
not feel sad, for he knew nothing about it, and was 
outside, in a field, running a race with some other 
boys. Mrs. Errol's servant, '" Mary," wishing to 
divert her mistress, persuaded her to go to the 
window, and there they stood watching the race. 
When it was over, Mary gave a shout, for " Cedric " 
had won it triumphantly ! Then he came running 
in — a dear little fellow in a white suit, with pale- 
blue sailor-collar, and big blue silk sash, and 
black stockings and shoes. He had a round, 
bright face, with intelligent eyes, and long dark- 
brown hair. Of course he was delighted over 
his success, and he had brought with him his two 
great friends, " Mr. Hobbs"and " Dick." Dick was 
played by an elder sister of Vera's, called Esme. 
She tried to talk like an American boy, but did not 
succeed very well. 

Well, Mrs. Errol and Mary went out of the room, 
and Cedric talked away to Mr. Hobbs and Dick 
as you can imagine ; showed them the picture of the 
Tower of London, and learned that Mr. Hobbs had 
a very low opinion of the English nobility in gen- 
eral, and of earls in particular. So he was not 
sorry to retire with his guests for refreshment. 
Then " Mr. Havisham " was announced. He had 
come to tell Mrs. Errol that the "Earl of Dorin- 
court's " sons were all dead, that only one of them 
had left a child, and that the child was Cedric, 
who was now "Lord Fauntleroy!" On hearing 
this Mrs. Errol was at first happy to think that her 
little boy would be provided for, but, when she 
was told that she would have to give up Cedric, 
and never live with him any more, she wept so- 
much that many of the audience wept too ! She 
had to think very sadly and seriously before she 
could make up her mind that, since she could 
not educate him properly, it was right to part with 
him ; but at last she consented, and, trying hard 
to hide her grief, she called in Cedric, and told 
him what had happened. 

The first thing the little fellow could think of 
was, what would Mr. Hobbs say ! 


How delighted Mr. Havisham was with the 
bright, gentle boy ! Here was a real little lord 
indeed ; — and he heard about Cedric's poor 
friends, and gave him money from his grand- 
father, of which Cedric quickly made good use, as 
you will remember. 

When Mr. Havisham had gone, Cedric had much 
to tell Mr. Hobbs, and Mr. Hobbssaid : "Well, I 'm 
jiggered ! " In fact, he was completely overcome 
on hearing that his little friend was to be an earl 
some day. I believe from that moment he began 
to think better of earls. Poor Mrs. Errol came in 
again, and Mr. Hobbs took his leave. Then the 
mother talked to her boy, explained that they would 
have to live apart, and tried to make light of it, 
but Cedric would scarcely be satisfied. Mrs. Errol 
told him, too, that every night and morning she 
would pray for him, saying, " God keep you all 
the night ; God bless you all the day," and she 
clasped him tenderly in her arms. The day had 
been so exciting, he said, that he felt quite sleepy. 
So his mother soothed and caressed him, and as 
he fell asleep, he murmured, " God keep you all 
the night ; God bless you all the day ! " And as 
the weeping mother bent over the sleeping boy, 
the curtain came slowly down. 

When it rose again, we found the cross old 
Earl scolding his servant, and making things very 
uncomfortable. Mrs. Errol begged him to be kind 
to Cedric, whom she had just brought to the Cas- 
tle ; but the Earl would scarcely listen to her, and 
she went away in great distress. Then Cedric was 
sent for, and came sauntering in, gazing with 
delight at the pictures which adorned the walls, 
at the soft carpets, and quaint old oak furniture, 
and so up to the big arm-chair, in which his grand- 
father sat beside the fire. 

The Earl was at once pleased with the appear- 
ance of the little fellow in dark-blue velvet knicker- 
bockers, blue silk stockings, and cerise silk sash. 
He let the boy care for his poor gouty foot, and tell 
him about the dog. " I am not afraid of him," said 
Cedric. "Are you?" And then the Earl had to hear 
about Mr. Hobbs, and you would have laughed 
at the way in which Vera imitated the exclamation, 
"Well! I 'm jiggered!" So much was the Earl 
won by the boy, that he allowed him to write to the 
bailiff to say that " Higgins " was not to be turned 
out, and Cedric's enthusiastic admiration for Lord 
Dorincourt's generosity and goodness made the old 
man begin to wish he were what Cedric believed 
him to be. Dinner beingannounced, Cedric bravely 
assisted his grandfather, mopping his damp brow, 
and begging the Earl not to mind leaning on him, 
and explaining that any one would be warm in 
such hot weather ! So they went out together. 

Then "Minna" walked in. and when little 

Cedric returned from the dining-room, she soon 
learned from him what had happened. But how 
the poor old Earl despaired and reproached himself 
on learning that Minna was his elder son's wife, 
and that her child was therefore entitled to be Lord 
Fauntleroy ! How sorry he was that Cedric was 
not the heir, and that this loud, vulgar woman was 
his daughter-in-law ! He had to tell Cedric, of 
course, and Cedric said brightly that he did not 
care at all about being an earl, but was he not to 
be his grandfather's boy any more? "Yes! always, 
always my boy," said the Earl, laying his hand 
tenderly on the brown curls. And then down went 
the curtain once more, just when we saw that the 
hard, proud old man had been melted into love by 
the winning trustfulness and affection of a little 

When the last act began, Cedric was dressed in 
a white riding-suit, and was talking to the groom 
about the "new boy," and about Dick and Mr. 
Hobbs, who were expected every day. Just at 

> v *S?iv 

that moment they arrived, and Cedric's mother, 
too, and the Earl was delighted to see her; and all 
were quite happy until the hateful Minna came in 
again, for she said she had brought " Lord Fauntle- 
roy " with her. You may imagine every one's delight 
when Dick recognized her, and proved that Cedric 




was Little Lord Fauntleroy after all ! Minna was 
soon sent away, and the Earl begged " Dearest" to 
come and live with him and her boy — which she, 
being gentle and forgiving, gladly promised to do. 

This was the end of the play, and the audience 
applauded till Mrs. Burnett bowed to them, and 
then they called for Mrs. Kendal, who appeared on 
the stage with Mrs. Burnett, and the two children. 

All the actors played so well that it is difficult 
to praise one more than another, but you will like 
best to hear about Vera. She made no mistakes, 

but said her words perfectly, and played so natur- 
ally that we all were charmed. So bright, so affec- 
tionate, so courteous, and so generous was her 
Cedric that we did not wonder that every one 
loved him. The children who were present were 
delighted : they wagged their little heads, laughed 
cheerily, and clapped heartily whenever they saw 
an opportunity ! 

So the play was very successful, and again, as 
in the beautiful story, Little Lord Fauntleroy won 
all hearts. 



By John J. A Becket. 

In the beginning of the century it lay there, just 
as comfortable a bit of green cropping out from 
the gray water as it is now. That is, Governor's 
Island was as cool and pleasant a spot, so far as 
natural features go, as it is to-day. But there are 
many things about it at this present which it did not 
have then. The garrison quarters, and the neat 
houses fronting on the lawns, wherein the officers 
enjoy so much sweet peacefulness after training 
themselves for the terrible turmoil of war, are 
more numerous and more home-like than they 
were in those days. 

The island has had many vicissitudes. One of 
them was the building of Fort Columbus. There 
was a fort there before, — Fort Jay; but the good 
people of New York thought this was not stout 
enough for a defense if the mother country, or 
France, were to send men-of-war sailing grimly up 
the harbor against the men of war who were sta- 
tioned behind the stone walls of the island fortifi- 

Mayor De Witt Clinton, and then Mayor Marinus 
Willett, desired to do whatever was thought needful 
for the well-being of the city they governed, and 
they felt that the pretty island must be made useful 

as a sentry over the town. The New York Gazette 
and the Evening Post (for there was the Evening 
Post, even then) could write such dreadful stories 
about the unprotected town, and would describe 
what the foe might do if the foe only wished to ; 
and it was very blood-curdling, I assure you. 

Finally, our good fathers and grandfathers be- 
came so worried about it, that what did they do 
but go down to the island themselves, strip off 
their coats, and help to build Fort Columbus. It 
was a sight to see ! — those goodly old gentlemen 
puffing over their patriotic toil. 

Even the learned professors of Columbia College 
laid aside caps and gowns and went to help rear the 
stout walls which were to shield the city's defenders. 
And the boys — the young fellows ! It was a 
jolly time for them. Not sorry were they to quit 
thumbing their Homers and Ciceros in order to 
become patriots. They liked it. It was fun. Of 
course, to have those heavy blocks of stone to 
carry all the time, to dig and wheel and ham- 
mer every day, would n't have been so enjoyable. 
But it was only for a time that they must put their 
shoulders to the wheel and help the country ; and 
they did it with exuberant, boyish enthusiasm. 


I I 

But there was one poor fellow on the island who 
did not take so much interest in what was going 
on. He had something else to consider — some- 
thing even more serious to him than was the de- 
fense of the colony to these young patriots. He 
was thinking that by the time they had finished 
the improvement in the fortification, a body of 
soldiers would march him out on the open space 
within the fort, then draw up in a blue and white 
line opposite to him, and aim at him with their 
glistening guns. Then an officer would give the 
signal. Bang ! would go the muskets ; and very 
poor marksmen indeed must they be, if they did 
not leave him there on the ground — dead ! 

That was what this young man was considering, 
and the thought was not a pleasant one. Not at 

there in the sunshine, under the big broad arch 
of the sky, and to feel the cool sea-breeze blow 
around him in a friendly way. There was a great 
difference between this and being kept in his hot 
cell, where a small window let in light and air in 
such a miserly way. 

He began to take considerable interest in the 
work on the fortification, after all. As the brown- 
stone wall rose, he watched the young collegians 
wheeling barrows filled with material, and helping 
so generously, and he found much pleasure in the 
sight. Sometimes he would sigh heavily when 
the thought came that in a few weeks he was to 
be shot, for his time was drawing to an end now. 
Then he would try to forget it all ; indeed, what 
was the use of thinking about it ? To brood upon 


all. He did n't desire to be shot. He was only 
twenty-five. He preferred to live to a green old 
age and then die quietly in his bed. But he had 
been arrested as a spy, and things had looked sus- 
picious when a drawing of the place was found upon 
him and he could n't give the countersign. 

Then it was a bad thing for him that he con- 
fessed to coming from Kings County, which was 
then a hot-bed of Tories. But all these things 
had happened, and he had been taken before the 
court and sentenced, in a dreadfully harsh way, to 
be shot. He had only some six months to live. 
That was better than being shot as soon as they 
captured him, but still it was n't very good. He 
greatly preferred not to be shot at all. 

He was not treated cruelly in the mean time. 
During a certain part of the day he was permitted 
to come out of his cell and walk about in the in- 
closure of Fort Jay. It was so pleasant to come 

his fate would only poison what little life remained 
for him. 

There was a little girl who interested George 
Horton (for that was the prisoner's name) even 
more than did the fortifications. She was a child 
whose yellow hair shaded her tiny face and fell 
almost to her large blue eyes. Her father was the 
commander on the island. She often came out 
with him to look at what the young collegians and 
the others were doing to the fort. She did not 
understand much about the art of war, though the 
daughter of a soldier. But she liked to see them 
set the big stones in place as they hoisted them to 
the top of the wall, which was very high, for they 
had now nearly finished their labors. 

George Horton was a man pleasant to look upon. 
He had eyes which were deeply blue, full red lips 
delicately curved, and a head of curly brown hair. 
He did n't look like a spy, but he was going to be 




shot as one. The little Alice did not know that. 
They did not wish to shock her tender soul by 
so painful a thought. 

" Why don't you work, and help those black men 
and the boys ? " she said one day so innocently to 
George Horton, looking up trustfully into his face. 
It was the honorable faculty of Columbia whom 
she described as "black men," because she saw 
them in their dark clothes. 

" Oh, they have enough without me, Little 
One," said Horton. 

"But I wish you to help, too." said Alice, im- 

" Well, I '11 tell you what I will do. You ask 
your papa to let me have a mallet and some cut- 
ting-tools, and two or three blocks of this stone, 
and I will carve something to go over the sally- 
port," he answered, half in jest, to please the child. 

But the little girl took it all quite seriously, and 
told her papa that the " man who walked around" 
wanted stone, and things to cut it with, and he 
would make something to put on top of the " Sally- 
gate." She was her papa's commanding officer, 
because her mamma was dead and had left this 
little golden-haired angel to remind her husband 
of her and of their short but happy married life. 
So the commander said the man should have plenty 
of stone, and could chip away all he chose. " He 
can't do any mischief," he said to himself, "and 
there 's stone enough and to spare." 

The next day he gave orders that the prisoner 
should be supplied with the tools he needed, and 
said he could have some of the stone blocks. Hor- 
ton picked out a sunny spot somewhat apart from 
the scene of the men's labors and used it as a 
studio. It had a low bench for furniture, upon 
which he could put the blocks to be cut, and also 
a seat where Alice could sit and watch his work. 

First, the young fellow took some brown paper 
and on it drew a beautiful design for a piece of 
sculpture. In it there were to be cannons, flags, 
cannon-balls, and guns, and the whole made quite 
an imposing piece for the sally-port. He measured 
the walls, and determined the size and proportions 
of his sculpture. 

" See the pretty thing the man is going to make," 
said Alice to her papa, when he came down to the 
works one day. Papa looked at the plan and was 
surprised. It was much more artistic than he had 
supposed it would be. Then as he examined the 
proportions, the scale according to which George 
Horton meant to carve, his mustaches went up 
a little ; for he was smiling grimly at the thought 
that there could hardly be time to finish all that 
before the prisoner would have to be interrupted 
in his work — and shot ! But he said to himself 
that it would do no harm to let him go ahead. It 

would please him and would please the little girl, 
and it did not matter very much whether the sculpt- 
ure was ever finished or not. 

Horton looked about among the pieces of brown- 
stone, rubbed his finger along their surfaces, and 
picked out some of the largest and finest-grained 
blocks. He wheeled these in a barrow to the spot 
he had selected, put one on the bench, and, with 
his design before him, set to work. 

Alice did not take much interest during the first 
day or two, because he seemed to be simply knock- 
ing the stone to pieces, and she was afraid of being 
hurt by some of the bits that came flying through 
the air from the chisel. But when the piece began 
to exhibit the rough proportions of a cannon, and 
of a draped flag, and George showed her in the 
picture what the part was and where it would be 
in the completed work, she became more interested, 
and would sit there talking to the young fellow and 
watching him with admiring eyes. 

1 ' You are truly working on the fort now, are n't 
you ? " she said to him. 

" Yes, Alice, I am making this for you, and it 
will be your present to the fort, because it was done 
to please you," George answered, pleasantly. 

He became absorbed in the work, and it went 
on bravely. Alice's papa often came to see it. 
He was quite surprised to find that the young 
prisoner was really a sculptor. He carved the 
brown-stone with true artistic skill. 

Day after day his chisel would dig out the form 
and outlines of the group, and every day the little 
girl came, sat by, and looked at it. 

Poor George had done no more than hew the 
stone into some rough resemblance to his plan, 
however, — and in a week more he was to be shot ! 
He would not be able to finish it ! The commander 
came oftener to look on ; and as he studied over it, 
he would twist his long mustaches and look very 
grave. Then he would walk away, biting at the 
end of his mustaches, and with his heavy eyebrows 
knit. As the time for the execution drew nearer 
and nearer, the commander came more frequently, 
and used to watch with peculiar interest the sturdy 
young fellow who chipped away so vigorously at 
the hard stone. Once the officer seemed to sigh 
as he saw the young man stop and wipe the per- 
spiration from his brow. 

One day, Alice for some time had been watching 
the cannon — which was getting very round and 
smooth now — as George worked away at it ; and 
when her papa came she was ready to go away 
with him. 

" Good-bye, George," she said (he had told 
her his name) and held out her hand. 

" Good-bye, Little One," he said cheerfully. He 
had come to love the bright child who seemed to 



take such pleasure in being near him. He cared 
more for her than for the sky, or the sea breeze — 
more than for the sunshine. 

She held his hand, and then put up her pretty 

" I 'd like to kiss you," she said, in a simple 

George glanced at her father, who was standing 
close by. That stern warrior nodded his head to 
the little girl who was his commanding officer, and 
Horton lifted her up to his face and kissed her 

in a few days has shown remarkable skill in carv- 
ing. The group he is making promises to be 
quite an ornament to the sally-port. He has 
worked very industriously and faithfully. Now, it 
seems a pity that he should not have time to finish 
his work. It is something that will be a monu- 
ment to his name. We are soldiers, and we know 
that glory is better than life. It seems hard to 
take him away from the sculpture before he has 
completed it. The respite will be short. 

" I have called you together, then, to say," he' 

J* I'" ^JPv* ^ ,. iff*- * ' 


"day after day the little girl came, sat by, and looked at the carving." 


heartily. Then he gently set her down, and she 
ran off by her papa's side, full of childish life and 

While he was holding the little girl she had 
flung her arms around his neck and clung to him, 
and a very pleasant smile had come on the young 
fellow's lips at this proof of her artless regard. 
The father of Alice had watched the scene, and 
kept very stiff and stern. But when they started 
to go he said, " Good-bye, Horton," in a brisk 
but friendly way. 

That evening Alice's father summoned the other 
officers to a meeting for the following day in the 
mess-room. When they came, at ten o'clock the 
next morning, he said to them: 

" The prisoner who is under sentence to be shot 

continued, "to say that I think, — as he can be 
executed at any time, and as the work can not be 
finished if he is shot, — and especially when we 
consider that he has worked so diligently and has 
been so well behaved, — I think, I say, that we 
ought to reprieve him until he finishes the 
sculpture for the sally-port. What do you say, 
gentlemen ? " 

Well, they were all in favor of it except one old 
martinet who would not have put off even his own 
execution, and who would have critically examined 
the men and their guns while they were drawn 
up ready to shoot him. He said no. But all the 
rest said yes. They were in favor of it. So the 
martinet remained a very small minority indeed, 
and did n't count. 




When the commander went back to his room he 
wrote on a slip of paper, " Your sentence will not 
be carried out until you have had time to finish the 
sculpture for the sally-port." He signed his name 
to it, and then looked around to find his little 

" Allie," he said to her, "you see this paper? 
I wish you to take it and give it to the man who is 
carving the stone." 

"That 's George," said Allie, smartly. 

" Well, you give this to George, then," said her 
papa, and he closed her small fingers over the 
paper. " Do not lose it." 

George was chipping away at a new block when 
he saw the blue-eyed creature running toward 
him. Her golden hair was tossed by the wind 
and blown about her head till it looked, George 
thought, like the golden halo around the head of a 
saint in an old picture. 

" Here, George ! " she said, as she came up. 
and thrust out her hand holding the paper. He 
took it, and she put her hands behind her back 
and looked at him to see what the paper would do. 
He read it, his face brightened, and he caught up 
the little girl, kissed her, and told her she was a 
darling. Then, putting the little girl into the seat 
she usually occupied, George returned to his carv- 
ing. Alice had never seen him show so much 
delight in his task. 

So the work went on, day after day. George 
added new features to the design till it became a 
very effective group indeed. The wall was fin- 
ished and the young students of Columbia were 
ready to return to Homer and kindly old Horace. 
But the piece for the sally-port was yet to be put 
into place. George Horton had cut and smoothed 
and rounded it. It needed all his courage to lay 
down his chisel and say, " It is done," when the 
green sward and the crack of the muskets were to 
be the reward of his labor. But he felt he could 
do no more. It was done ; and all that now re- 
mained was to hoist the different blocks to their 
places over the sally-port. 

Much interest had been taken in it of late. It 
was an excellent bit of work. The old soldiers 
came and looked at it, and so did the learned 

"He 's a good one for clipping stone, he is," 
said a soldier. 

" Yes ; he seems proficient in the glyptic art," 
said a saucy collegian ; whereupon the blue-coat 
looked at him with envy. 

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the men 
were hoisting up the carved blocks. George, with 
pride in his eye, was superintending the work. 
They had the blocks all in position, and were put- 
ting the top-piece into its place. Alice was watch- 

ing the operation. She kept near to George, who 
was directly below, where he could see everything. 

As the men were setting the last block, a rather 
heavy stone, Alice saw some pretty dandelions 
growing near the wall, just beneath the entrance 
to the sally-port. She ran to get them. As she 
stooped to pick them up, through some awkward- 
ness or miscalculation, the stone slowly toppled, 
and in a moment more was falling ! 

A shriek broke from Alice's father, soldier 
though he was, when he saw death hurtling down 
upon his lovely little girl. But George Horton 
had seen the danger even sooner than the father. 
On the instant he dashed forward, and leaning 
over against the wall, he screened the body of the 
little girl with his own. 

Happily the big block did not fall directly upon 
him. But it crashed down and threw him to the 
ground, and the child too was overthrown. Had 
he not stepped forward it would have grazed her 
body, but might have left her unscathed. As it 
was, she was not hurt, though her fright was great, 
and the soldiers who ran up carried her to her 

But poor Horton lay there deathly white near 
the stone, which had grazed one of his limbs. He 
had fainted from the pain. They carefully raised 
him and bore him to the barracks. 

It was only by the greatest care that his leg was 
saved from amputation, for there was danger of 
mortification. But there were no bones broken, 
and, after five or six weeks' siege in a sick-room, 
Horton recovered and could walk about. 

Alice's father was greatly touched by the self- 
sacrifice of the young fellow. It went to his sol- 
dierly heart to see the courageous young man hurl 
himself into the breach, and especially, to save his 
little golden-haired girl from deadly peril. It did 
not take him long to decide what he ought to 
do. He prepared a communication to the com- 
mander-in-chief, and set forth what Horton had 
done. He told of the young fellow's good con- 
duct, of his hard, earnest work on the sculpture 
for the sally-port ; touched in terms of high praise 
on the work itself as a piece of ornamental carving, 
and spoke of how great a decoration it was to the 
new fort. Then he told of Horton's noble con- 
duct in trying to save the little girl from being 
hurt by the falling stone, and of the severe injury 
and long, painful illness which had resulted. 

"Is not this a case for clemency? We, the 
undersigned, urge the prisoner's release. He has 
shown himself worthy of mercy. If he is released 
on parole he is a man to keep his word." 

All the officers signed this document except the 
dreadful old martinet, who voted that Horton should 
be thanked and praised and then — be shot. 



At the end of the document, in a large, sprawl- 
ing hand, was written : 

Dere General: George saved my Life, and I wish you would 
please let him go. He is a good, kind, man. Alice Prescott. 

In a few days the General sent a document in 
reply, and it proved to be Horton's release on 
parole. When he was told, he was glad enough. 
He seized the little Alice the next time he saw her 
and said : 

" When you grow up, Alice, and see the carv- 
ing over the sally-port, you can say, ' That saved 
George Horton's life, and except for me it would 
not have been made.'" Then he kissed her very 
heartily, and she returned the kiss with childlike 

George Horton married, and some of his great- 
grandchildren are yet living in Kings County. 
Alice was married, too, and when she brought her 
children to see the sally-port she pointed to the 
sculpture, and told them it had saved a man's life, 
and that a soldier had carved it at her request when 
she was a little girl. 

And there it is to-day over the sally-port. The 
edges are eaten away by the weather, and it looks 
a little flaky and the worse for wear. But it lends 
an interest to it to know that the young fellow who 
carved it lived to a green old age because of this 

work, instead of meeting a tragic death on the 
green sward of Fort Columbus in his youth. 



By N. P. Babcock. 

My little girl is eight to-day — 
That is, she 's just twice four; 

Or four times two, perhaps you '11 say; 

And maybe that 's a better way 
To make my love seem more. 

For when my pretty Ruth was two, — 

When she was just half four, — 
It seemed as if the love I knew 
Had grown — or, as she'd say, "had grew' 
Till it could grow no more. 

And now she 's four times two ! dear me, 

And writes a big round hand ; 
And when they 're passed a cup of tea 
She makes her dolls exclaim "Merci! " 
Which French dolls understand. 

When eight? or two? I scarcely know 

Which birthday I would choose. 
At eight I 'd have, keeping her so, 
Four times as much to love, — but oh ! 
Four times as much to lose. 

She was a little midget then, 

When she was only two, 
And used to say "Dear Lord, Amen; 
Bress Papa, Mamma, 'n' me again"; 

'T was all the prayer she knew. 

At what age did she seem most dear ? 

Ah, well, to tell the truth, 
A different blossom bloomed each year; 
They all seemed sweet ; but this one here, 

You know, is really Ruth. 




Bv Lieut. F. Harrison Smith, R. N. 

Since the time of Henry VII., the old town of 
Portsmouth, in England, has been the headquar- 
ters of the British Navy. To English boys the 
place is familiar through stories and biographies 
of sea heroes. But to American boys a brief 
description of Portsmouth will not be without in- 
terest. The town is built on the east side of the 
harbor, an extensive piece of water running from 
the English Channel into the south coast of the 
county of Hampshire. Along its east shore and 
extending year by year farther north, is the dock- 
yard. Let us climb the signal-tower and take a 
view of the surrounding sights. The yard, with 
its numerous docks, basins, sheds, factories, and 
houses, looks like a settlement of no little extent ; 
but beyond, through the generally smoky atmos- 
phere, can be seen the town and its environs. 

This vast expanse of brick and mortar gives one 
some idea of the necessities which attend so large 
an establishment as the dock-yard. 

The thousands of workmen employed form a 
colony in themselves, and they occupy the parts of 
the town toward the north and east; while along 
the coast in the same direction, the town of South- 
sea stretches away for two or three miles. It is 
here that the officers — naval, military, and civil — 
for the most part reside, and the view in this direc- 
tion, embracing as it does the well-laid-out recrea- 
tion grounds, the piers and their crystal pavilions, 
the canoe-lake and other ornamental waters, is 
most pleasing. 

* The illustrations to this article are copied, by permission, from 

Looking south, we see, over the fort-studded 
waters of the Solent, the Isle of Wight — the garden 
of England. Continuing around the circle of our 
view, we come to Stokes Bay, where a huge iron- 
clad is tearing along on the measured mile at the 
top of her ponderous speed, doing her utmost 
to establish a reputation for swiftness. She is 
closely followed by an arrow-like torpedo-boat, 
which gradually gains on her, yard by yard. But 
the torpedo-boat is not matching her speed with that 
of the monster. She is out only for trial of her 
deadly discharge-tubes, and so, just when the race 
is most exciting to the onlookers at the top of the 
tower, the little boat shoots off in a direction oppo- 
site to that taken by the huge iron-clad. 

Glancing to the west side of the harbor, we see 
the Naval Hospital at Haslar, a fine pile of build- 
ings, which appears capacious enough for all the 
officers and men of the British fleet, and not alone 
the sick and wounded. Near by is the victualing- 
yard at Gosport, with its great bakeries and stores 
of clothing and provisions. 

Along the north shore of the harbor are the 
Portsdown hills, the sky-line of which is broken by 
threatening forts, and an occasional chalk-quarry, 
while Nelson's monument crowns the ridge. Right 
below us, in the harbor, are three venerable men- 
of-war. The largest on the right is the " Duke of 
Wellington," the flag-ship of the Commander-in- 
Chief of the port. This vessel served a commis- 
sion at sea in the Baltic, during the war against 

photographs by Messrs. Symonds & Co., Portsmouth, England. 



Russia in 1854, and afterward. She is nearly the 
last of her race, as iron soon afterward began to 
fulfill the pretended prophecy of old Mother Ship- 
ton, the soothsayer, which ran : 

" Iron in the water shall float, 
As easy as a wooden boat." 

Next comes the most treasured relic of her naval 
struggles which Great Britain possesses. This is the 
venerable and venerated " Victory, " the flag-ship of 
Lord Nelson, his battle-field and his death-bed. On 
the 2 1st of every October, the old ship is decorated 
with garlands in memory of that day in 1805, when 
the great and glorious battle of Trafalgar was so 
bravely fought and so dearly won. 

The third old ship — always an object of interest 
to strangers visiting Portsmouth — is the "St. 
Vincent," a training-ship for boys. The lads were 
aloft actively engaged at drill when we saw them. 

Nor should we forget the quaint parish church, 
built in the twelfth 
century, with its peal 
of bells stolen by an 
admiral from Dover 
some hundreds of 
years ago, and then 
brought round in 
his ship to Ports- 
mouth ; and its old 
organ saved from the 
wreck of a vessel 
which was conveying 
it to Spain. 

In July, 1887, be- 
ing already familiar 
with the surround- 
ings of England's 
great naval center, 
we entered the dock- ' 
yard to see the rapid 
preparations to bring 
forward, for commis- 
sion, the ships and 
torpedo-boats about 
to be assembled for 
reviewby the Queen, 
on the occasion of 
the Jubilee, on July 
23d. It should first 
be understood that 
a ship is said to be 
commissioned, when 
her commander has 
been commissioned to man and prepare her for 
service at sea. Other ships are in " reserve " ; the 
first reserve containing ships nearly ready for sea 
service, and so on downward, till a dismantled and 

Vol. XVI.— 2. 

empty ship, requiring extensive repairs to her hull, 
new boilers, and a general refit of her machinery, is 
placed in the fourth class. 

The ships then preparing were the " Inflexi- 
ble," "C'ollingwood," "Edinburgh," and "Impe- 
rieuse " ; a fast torpedo vessel, the "Fearless"; 
nineteen small iron gunboats, and nearly thirty 
torpedo-boats. As the little torpedo-boats had 
already been manned, and were just home from a 
cruise, they were awaiting only the return of their 
officers and men from the depot-ships, and could 
be made ready in about two hours. 

It was about nine o'clock on the morning of the 
1st of July. The Inflexible, Collingwood, and 
Edinburgh were to be commissioned. The cap- 
tains and most of the officers had arrived in Ports- 
mouth the night before, and at the hour named 
the ensign was hoisted at the staff, and the cap- 
tain's whip-like pennant was run aloft to the truck 
of the mast with all due solemnity. For some min- 


utes there was a continued fire of greetings from old 
friends, who stumbled upon one another on the 
deck of the same ship after long years of separa- 
tion. But soon the bustle began ; the men carried 




below the bags containing their kits, the ham- 
mocks were stowed in the boxes, and for some time 
everybody, from the captain down to " Jack-in- 
the-Dust," or the steward's small boy, was busy 

outfitters, who take care of them until their owners 
return — perhaps after many years have elapsed. 

The stowage of the cabins was soon complete 
enough to enable their tenants to occupy them. 


settling down — a brief process with officers who 
are well accustomed to it, and whose worldly be- 
longings seldom exceed a fair load for a four- 
wheeled cab. The officers and their servants work 
together with a will to stow into tiny cabins gear 
which in chaotic disorder would appear to require 
a warehouse for its reception. 

Here, an officer, with coat and vest off, is giving 
his personal attention to his valued knickknacks, 
pictures, and mirrors, while he directs his servant 
as to the stowage of his clothing, which is rapidly 
transferred from the unwieldy chest, or packing- 
case, which refused to go through the cabin door, 
into the chest of drawers under his bunk ; for, on 
board ship, space is so limited that an economy 
Goldsmith thought worthy of note in the ale-house 
of the " Deserted Village" — '""a bed by night, a 
chest of drawers by day" — is almost the rule. 
But by noon, most of the empty cases are on their 
way from the dock-yard to the stores of the various 

and the disposition of the many ornaments was 
left till some more leisurely hour. Meanwhile, a 
no less busy scene has been enacted on the men's 
mess-deck. The bags having been stowed in the 
iron racks prepared for them, the men are busy 
putting their broad-brimmed straw hats and their 
ditty-boxes overhead. 

The ditty-box itself is certainly worth looking 
into. It is a plain deal case, with lock and key, 
and comes in for its share of scrubbing and clean- 
ing with the same unsparing severity as the shin- 
ing deck. It contains all the treasures which a 
sailor can carry about with him, Now it holds but 
little, its contents being only the few articles 
necessary to the tailoring which each man must do 
to keep his clothes in order, a book or two, a few 
home treasures, and maybe a watch and chain. 
Occasionally a promising young seaman may 
have gone so far as to provide for the likelihood of 
his being promoted to the rating of boatswain's- 



mate during the commission, and have brought 
with him a silver call or whistle, perhaps the pres- 
ent of his wife or sweetheart. Before the end of a 
commission, the ditty-box probably will be full of 
letters from home, and of all bright days in the life 
of a sailor on a foreign station, the brightest are 
those on which the mail arrives. 

But over the ditty-box, we are forgetting the 
men themselves. They have been told off to the 
different messes in which, generally speaking, they 
will live for the term of the ship's commission, 
though many may change, from time to time. 

boxes divided off by a low bulkhead, or partition, 
from the open deck, the messes consist simply of a 
plain oblong wooden table, hanging at one end 
from the ship's side, and supported at the other 
by iron legs. A bench runs along each side of the 
table, and a few racks, to hold plates, basins, and 
other crockery in security when the vessel knocks 
about at sea, complete the furniture of the 

The food of each mess is prepared, day by day, 
by the member who in turn is " cook of the 
mess," and by him it is taken to and brought from 


Either they leave the ship, or they can not agree 
with their messmates, or they wish to be in the 
same mess with their chums or "townies," and so 
are exchanged from one mess to another for the 
mutual satisfaction of all parties. Excepting those 
of the chief petty-officers, who live in one or more 

the galley, where it is cooked on the stove by the 
ship's cook. The cook performs this duty for 
all the messes, except those of the officers, who 
have their own galleys. The men of each mess 
are responsible for its cleanliness, and on Satur- 
day, the great cleaning-day, tables and benches 




are placed overhead, that the decks may be thor- 
oughly scrubbed. 

But when noon arrives, the sentry strikes eight- 
bells with a vigor peculiarly characteristic of ma- 
rine sentries at this hour, and immediately there is 
a clattering of tin dishes, plates, spoons, knives, 
and forks, above which is heard the shrill piping 
of the boatswain's-mates' calls, as they pipe to 
dinner with their long-drawn notes and tremolos. 
During the busy days of commissioning, the time 
granted to the men for their meals is short, and 
as, until after the evening quarters, or muster, 
their only chance to smoke is during meal-hours, 
very little time is lost in conversation at dinner, 

fleers in charge, and the gunnery and torpedo 
lieutenants ; and whenever anything is amiss, the 
fact is reported to the captain, who attends to sup- 
plying the deficiency. 

For some days this goes on. Carts are contin- 
ually arriving from the different stores in the yard 
with rope, canvas, and the thousand and one last 
articles required. At last the ship is ready to re- 
ceive her powder and shell, to have her compasses 
adjusted, and to run a steam-trial in charge of her 
own engineers and stokers. 

When her stores are shipped she is hauled from 
alongside the dock-yard wall andmade fast toabuoy 
in the harbor. Or she goes out of harbor and takes 



nearly everybody wishing to secure as much time 
as possible for his pipe. When the dinner-hour 
is over, out go the pipes and all the men (or 
"hands," as they are termed) are told off to 
various duties; but to-day the bugle sounds to 
exercise at "general quarters," which means, pre- 
paring for action. When a ship has been some 
time in commission, this is a matter of a very few 
moments ; but now the gun-gear has to be tested, 
and examinations must be made to see that all 
articles and stores for working the guns, providing 
powder and projectiles, or for flooding the maga- 
zines in case of fire, are supplied. 

So everything is minutely inspected by the of- 

in her powder, has the errors of her compasses 
ascertained and recorded, or corrected, and runs 
her trial trip. There may be a few defects to be 
repaired, after which she probably goes for a week's 
cruise in the Channel to test her sea-going quali- 
ties and familiarize her officers with her behavior. 
Finally, she leaves England for her station abroad. 
Such is an outline of the method of commission- 
ing a ship ; and though the ships for the Jubilee 
Review were to be commissioned for only a short 
time, yet they went through this whole routine. It 
was intended that they should be fitted as if for 
general service ; and, indeed, their efficiency was 
severely tested in the complicated maneuvers. 



Shortly after being placed in commission the 
big ships went on a cruise to Portland, sixty miles 
to the westward of Portsmouth, an A there they 
remained until their return to Spithead to take 
position for the Review. Meanwhile the smaller 
vessels, gunboats and torpedo-boats, were being 
prepared ; but as the work of commissioning these 

their anchorage after the Review. As we go out 
toward the fleet we pass close to a little squadron 
of six trim sailing-brigs, which are tenders to the 
boys' training-ships at Portsmouth, Portland, and 
Plymouth. Pretty, toy-like craft they seem in the 
foreground of the vast fleet of grim war-vessels. 
Our torpedo-boat dashes across the bows of 


small craft is comparatively light, it was left till a 
later time. By the iSth of July, all the ships were 
ready, and two days afterward the magnificent 
fleet was moored in its formation. Thousands of 
spectators daily thronged the beach, the piers, and 
the frequent excursion-steamers which ran up and 
down the lines of war-vessels. After dark, prac- 
tice with the electric lights began, in order to in- 
sure the success of the illuminations which were to 
follow the Review. 

All the fleet being in position, activity and 
order took the place of bustle and confusion. A 
glance at the chart (see page 26) shows us that the 
big ships were moored in three squadrons, of two 
divisions, or lines, each. Between the northern 
lines of the squadrons — called Second Divisions — 
and the shore, were five flotillas composed of smaller 
turret-ships, gunboats, and torpedo-boats. This 
arrangement was made in order that those ships 
which were to maneuver in company might be placed 
together and be in convenient positions for leaving 

two old-fashioned turret-ships, "Prince Albert" 
and " Glatton," which lead the lines of D Flotilla ; 
and we pass on under the stern of the " Agincourt," 
and board the " Minotaur," which is flying the 
flag of Vice-Admiral Sir William Hewett, V. C. 
These two ships, each having five masts, are just 
alike, so that a visit to one will make us acquainted 
with both. At the gangway, we are received by an 
officer who willingly sends a quartermaster over 
the ship with us, as his own duties do not permit 
him to leave the upper deck during his watch. 
From the raised poop we have a splendid view of 
the opposite line of ships, while dead astern of us 
is a confused forest of masts, funnels, and super- 
structures. Through the gaps between the ships 
of the other line we can see the torpedo-boats, but 
we must inspect them more closely on our return 
trip to the harbor. Looking forward, the bows of 
the ship seem to be a tremendous distance away, 
while the intervening deck, unincumbered by big 
guns, looks like a ball-room floor — for which, our 




guide informs us, it very frequently has to do man's writing-table is situated. This has a thor- 

duty. oughly business-like air, in contrast with its more 

The admiral is on shore, so, under supervision romantic surroundings. Electric bells connect the 

of the sentry, we take a walk around his cabins, desk with every part of the ship, summoning by a 


We expected something very spacious for such a 
" monarch of the sea," but we find one compart- 
ment almost monopolized by a big 12-ton gun, 
ponderous, but harmless in comparison with the 
more modern and lighter pieces of ordnance which 
we shall see later. On one side of this gun is the 
admiral's sleeping-apartment, a comfortable place, 
like any gentleman's dressing-room. On the op- 
posite side of the gun are the dining-tables, adapted 
for the admiral and his staff, or for larger parties, 
" for 't is n't often as the admiral does n't have a lot 
of people to dinner," remarks the quartermaster. 
Then we step into the after-cabin, which is deco- 
rated with pictures of ships which the admiral 
formerly commanded, and with curiosities from 
almost every land under the sun. There is a won- 
derful shield and silver gauntlet, and numerous 
spears and robes, all presents from the King of 
Abyssinia, for the admiral is a member of the 
ancient Abyssinian Order of Solomon. There is 
a splendidly mounted horn from Norway ; there 
are trophies from the Soudan, West Africa, the 
Cape of Good Hope, and China, in such profusion 
that we seem to be paying a visit to a museum. 
Many photographs of friends occupy the rest 
of the available space, except where the great 

touch officers of the staff, sentries, or signalmen ; 
while baskets of papers, blue-books, and piles of 
letters and papers lie about. 

Around the stern are glass doors leading out 
to a small veranda, called the stern-walk, which 
looks pleasant in this July weather. But it would 
not be a comfortable place during a bitter winter 
night in the English Channel. 

Passing out of the cabin, and down a steep lad- 
der, we reach the after part of the main-deck. 
Behind a screen of red curtains are a stove and 
some easy-chairs of cane or wicker-work, for this 
is the officers' smoking-room. 

For some little distance forward, — or toward the 
bows, — on each side, are cabins or offices, and then 
we come to the monster guns which seem to reach 
almost up to the deck above. We wonder how 
it can be possible to live while they are fired in so 
confined a space ; but it is said that the noise is 
less deafening inside the vessel than outside. 
Between the guns are the men's messes, as already 
described. There is no room beyond the space 
necessary for moving about. Cooking-stoves, huge 
chain-cables, and mess-places for the chief petty- 
officers, occupy every available inch of the middle 
part of the deck, while the guns and tables in the 




men's messes fill up the sides, leaving only a nar- 
row gangway. 

We now dive down a dark hatchway near the 
bows, by means of an iron ladder, and coming to 
the lower deck we find the cells, capstan, and elec- 
tric-light machinery, racks for the men's bags, 
and scores of other things. On this deck, and be- 
low it, the ship is divided off into water-tight com- 
partments, by means of iron walls or bulkheads. 
We pass through them by heavy iron doors, which 
can be closed at a second's notice. But we are now 
nearly below the level of the water outside, and the 
only light we get is from the hatchways and some 
small windows called scuttles, which are pierced 

pies nearly the whole length and breadth of the 
room, but a piano is just squeezed in at one corner. 
In the bulkhead, at the opposite end of the gun- 
room, is a small sliding window, which leads into 
the pantry. This window is incessantly opening 
and shutting, while the miscellany of articles passed 
through it is perfectly astounding. 

A gun-room steward must be a man of many 
talents, or his life will not be worth living. The 
calls on his temper are outnumbered only by the 
demands on his stock, and he must learn to brook 
the imperious tone of the childlike voices which 
command him, half-a-dozen times a day, to "bring 
me my jam, and look sharp about it ; my boat is 


through the ship's side. In some places the side 
is of great thickness, owing to the armor and its 
backing. In this old ship the armor is only five 
and a half inches thick, while that of the new "In- 
flexible " is twenty-four inches thick, and has a 
backing of twenty-five inches. 

In one compartment we find the " gun-room," 
the mess-place of the younger officers. This is a 
dingy cave, lighted now by a dim oil-lamp; but the 
young officer who welcomes us informs us that at 
night, when the engines are working, the room is 
well lighted by electricity. Against the ship's side 
are lockers for books and sextants, while hooked on 
the bulkheads are numerous telescopes, swords^ 
■dirks, and a hundred other articles. A table occu- 

called away." Often enough the order is drowned 
in a babel of other shouts from a multitude of 
throats simultaneously yelling for various extraor- 
dinary articles of consumption — cocoa, biscuits, 
tobacco, or fruit. Sometimes the babel is silenced 
by a stentorian shout from a sub-lieutenant, who 
subdues the tumult by authority, and takes advan- 
tage of the lull to enforce his own claim for a 
cooling draught. But in response to the bewilder- 
ing outcries, the steward gives a cheerful "Aye, 
aye ; one moment, sir ! " and before that brief inter- 
val has expired, a dozen different articles are thrust 
through the window with a precision only acquired 
by years of practice. 

Just outside the gun-room are the chests of its 

2 4 



occupants, for the young officers have no cabins. 
Each chest contains all the worldly possessions of 
one officer., which, thus packed, are as inaccessible 
as they well can be. Immediately under the lid 
are three or four shallow trays. One of these is 
fitted as a washstand, with basin, mug, soap-dish, 
and receptacle for tooth-brushes. Another till is a 
sort of loose box for everything; while a third con- 
tains a miscellaneous collection of neckties, hand- 
kerchiefs, pipes, money, and a limited stock of 
jewelry. Under these trays, and packed more or 
less tidily, according to the tendencies of the 
marine servant who " looks after " each young gen- 
tleman, are his uniforms, suits of plain clothes, 
boots, linen, and articles of haberdashery. After 
this explanation, my readers will not find it diffi- 
cult to understand why the expression " everything 
on top, and nothing at hand, like a midshipman's 
chest," is commonly applied to any chaotic disar- 
rangement on board ship. 

Abaft, or nearer the stern of the ship than the 
gun-room, is the ward-room, where the senior offi- 
cers live. This is a spacious apartment surrounded 
by tastefully decorated cabins, and lighted from 
the deck above by a large open skylight, or hatch- 

seniors to be much more appropriate to gun-room 

From our inspection of the Minotaur we re- 
turned to the torpedo-boat which was to convey us 
through the lines, and passing down between the 
port and starboard divisions of the three squad- 
rons, A, B, and C, we turned to come up between 
the lines of the flotillas of gunboats and torpedo- 
boats. Being anxious to pay a visit to a torpedo- 
boat, we selected No. Si, which, being one of the 
largest boats, was in H flotilla. She is one hundred 
and thirty-five feet in length, and capable of 
steaming eighteen knots, or sea-miles, an hour. 
This is equal to a speed of more than twenty land- 
miles. Her crew comprises a lieutenant, who 
commands, a sub-lieutenant, a gunner, an engi- 
neer-officer, and sixteen deck and stoke-hold hands. 
The men are all specially trained in their duties, 
the seamen in gunnery and torpedo-work, the 
engine-room artificers and stokers in the care of 
the delicate machinery and boilers of these boats. 

Her armament consists of quick-firing machine- 
guns, which throw a projectile three pounds in 
weight, and capable of piercing a considerable 
thickness of iron or steel plating. But besides 


way. The ward-room differs from the gun-room in 
its staid and sober quiet, except when some young 
officers, but recently promoted from the latter mess, 
show a liveliness popularly considered by their 

these guns, which may be considered as the aux- 
iliary armament of a torpedo-boat, are the tubes 
and carriages for discharging torpedoes. Fixed 
in the bows, and opening out through the stem, 




or cutwater, is a tube which fires only directly 
ahead of the boat. On deck are other tubes which 
can be pointed, or, as it is called, "trained," in 
any direction desirable. The torpedo is dis- 
charged from its tube or carriage by means of 
gunpowder or compressed air, which is called the 
impulse. This expels the torpedo with consider- 
able force, and during its progress to the water 
a small obstruction throws back a lever on the top 
of the torpedo, and so admits compressed air, from 
the chamber in which it is stored, into the engines. 
Thus the screw-propellers are set in motion auto- 
matically as the torpedo is entering the water; 
and while they continue to revolve the torpedo is 
kept moving through the water toward the object 
at "which the tube or carriage was aimed. The 
torpedo can be adjusted, before being fired, to 
go through the water at any particular depth 

The torpedo itself is double-ended in shape, like 
a cigar. At the forward point is a detonating con- 
trivance called a "pistol," which explodes the 
charge when the torpedo comes into contact with 
an object. To insure detonation of the pistol, 
even if the object is not struck at right angles, 
there are "whiskers" or projections, and these 
cause detonation if the torpedo strikes the object 
obliquely. Next to the pistol comes the charge of 
gun-cotton, the weight of which varies in different 

torpedoes, but which may be taken as about one 
hundred pounds. The greater part of it is wet 
gun-cotton, which is ignited by the explosion of 
some dry gun-cotton, called a primer; and this 
primer is itself exploded by the action of the ful- 
minate contained in the pistol. The torpedo also 
contains a chamber of air to give it buoyancy, and 
another chamber of compressed air for working 
the engines. The engines are contained in an- 
other compartment, from which the shafts to 
turn the screws pass to the stem of the torpedo. 
There are two screws which work in opposite direc- 
tions on the same center. This is accomplished 
by putting the shaft of one inside the shaft of the 
other. There are rudders for keeping the torpedo 
on its course and at its proper depth, and these 
are worked by a balance mechanism in the interior 
of the torpedo. Small projecting fins on the body 
of the torpedo reduce its tendency to roll. Precau- 
tions are also taken to render the torpedo harmless 
until it has gone a certain distance, and again after 
it has run its journey. In the absence of such pre- 
cautions it might be more dangerous to friends than 
to foes, either by turning round and running back 
against the ship from which it was fired, owing to 
some defect in the steering arrangements, or by 
exploding when picked up by friends. 

Half on deck and half below the upper deck of 
the boat, are bullet-proof towers, from which the 







Tf *Al* 

■j? ^r ^ 

-■•■•• / ° TH *«^ e > --. 

>■.:.-.::> <-■ -•-. "'^ \ 

'oaaj ■ 


officer and steersman maneuver the boat in action. 
Inside these towers the steering wheels and the con- 
trivances for discharging the torpedoes are placed. 
There are narrow slits around the towers through 
which the people inside can see what is going on 
outside, but which will exclude rifle-bullets. 

So much of the bow-compartment of the boat 
as is not taken up by the bow torpedo-tubes is 
occupied by the men. Then come the engines and 
boilers, and the officers' cabin, which will accom- 
modate two comfortably, as things go, or more at a 
pinch. Though No. 8i boat is designed to accom- 
modate four officers besides the commander, every 
available inch of space is used for stowing arms, 
provisions, cooking utensils, and the many things 
necessary for service. In fact, were you to see the 
whole of the stores and furniture which a torpedo- 
boat carries, placed on the wharf beside her, you 
would think it impossible to stow them all away 
in so tiny a craft. But our visit to the torpedo- 
boat is at an end, and in our own craft, which is 
waiting for us, we make for the harbor again. 

So fine had the weather been for weeks preced- 
ing the review, that as the day of the pageant ap- 
proached, all felt that it must change. When the 
barometer fell, and the wind chopped round to a 
rainy quarter on the evening of the 22d of July, a 
regular downpour was foretold for the next day. 

Early in the morning I ascended to the top ot 
the high signal tower in the dock-yard, and 
gazed around. A thin mist hung over the ships 
at Spithead, but this was rapidly lifting before a 
light breeze, and the waters of the Solent, with the 
magnificent fleet reposing quietly at anchor, were 
soon revealed. The sky was clear and blue, and 
every outline of the surrounding scenery, compris- 
ing hills, buildings, ships, and sea, was sharp and 
well defined. Close under my tower lay the har- 
bor with the old line of battle-ships, and the 
" Osborne," the yacht of the Prince of Wales. 

All was quiet and still, except the pacing of a 
sentinel here and there, until the bell struck the 
hour of eight o'clock. Then were heard a few 
sharp words of command, a shrill piping, and there 


2 7 

fluttered aloft a brilliant display of bunting, which, 
in the twinkling of an eye, had formed itself into 
a rainbow over every ship in view. This change 
was magical, for one could not see the men running 
away along the decks with the ropes which hoisted 
the flags into position. From the main-truck of 
the Osborne, the standards of the Prince of 
Wales and the King of Greece flew side by side. 
The forenoon was not very advanced when people 
began to throng the walks along the sea-front, the 
beach, the piers, and every possible point, above 
and below, from which a view of the expected 
pageant could be obtained. Long before the time 
appointed for the troop-ships conveying visitors 
to move out of harbor, thousands were thronging 
into the dock-yard, by special trains from London, 
in carriages, and on foot. The jetties were soon 
covered with people, and lined by ships two and 


three deep, which received their cargoes of visitors 
as fast as they could possibly crowd aboard. The 
five gigantic Indian troop-ships, with their vast 
white sides glistening under a bright sun, looked 
superb. They were all alike, except that each had a 
stripe of color to distinguish her from her sister 
ships. The "Euphrates," with the blue stripe, 
conveyed the Cabinet Ministers and the members of 
the House of Lords, while the "Crocodile," which 
had a yellow streak, was assigned to carry the mem- 
bers of the House of Commons. The "Malabar" 
was allotted to Indian officials, while nine other 
troop-ships carried general visitors who had been 
lucky enough to secure tickets in the tremendous 
rush to obtain these coveted bits of cardboard which 
had been going on for some weeks. Besides the 

vessels already named, there were ten vessels for 
diplomatists, naval and military functionaries, scien- 
tific societies, and friends of those in the navy. 

Punctually at the time appointed for the vessels 
to start on their tour round the fleet, they began to 
move, and at last a long stream of ships was seen 
threading its way between the lines of the men-of- 
war anchored in review order at Spithead. Many 
of them were to repeat the tour in the Royal proces- 
sion, so they dropped their anchors near Osborne 
Bay, ready to take position in the line which was 
to be formed to follow the Queen's yacht, the 
" Victoria and Albert." The others, having seen 
all there was to be seen, took places to the southward 
of the south line of ships, in the positions which you 
will see marked in the chart. Soon after three 
o'clock a gun was heard. This was the signal which 
announced that the Royal yacht was leaving Osborne 
Bay. Immediately the sound 
was repeated by another gun 
fired from the Inflexible (which 
carried the flag of the Com- 
mander-in-Chief), and then the 
cannonade of a royal salute 
thundered from every ship 
of the mighty fleet, till the 
air reverberated again. Mean- 
while the royal procession 
approached, and when the 
smoke cleared away, every 
eye was strained to catch the 
first glimpse of the sovereign. 
The way is led by the yacht 
of the Trinity Corporation, 
which precedes the royal yacht 
as a pilot, then comes the 
"Victoria and Albert," fol- 
lowed by the Osborne and the 
tenders and other ships of the 
procession. As the vessels 
steam grandly up between 
the lines, the cheers of the blue-jackets, who are 
manning the yards aloft, or are ranged around 
the decks and the turrets of the mastless ships, are 
taken up by thousands of throats on shore, and 
passed along from point to point till the applause 
bids fair to out-thunder the salute still ringing 
hoarsely in our ears. Having steamed through the 
space between the squadrons of large ships and the 
flotillas of coast-defense vessels and small craft, the 
royal procession extends its tour to the eastward, 
and it is generally supposed that the sovereign is 
taking a cup of tea ! But after some little delay, 
the yachts are seen to turn and again approach the 
fleet. As they enter between the lines of the 
squadrons of big ships the cheering recommences. 
Soon the vessels slow down, and, in obedience to a 




signal from the Queen, they stop. Then another 
signal commands the attendance on board the 
"Victoria and Albert" of all the captains of the 
ships of the fleet. With them come also the cap- 


tains of the foreign men-of-war, and a levee is held, 
at which the Queen addresses a few words to several 
of the officers. This done, the captains return to 
their ships, the procession proceeds on its course, 
and a signal is made to the Commander-in-Chief: 
" Her Majesty has great satisfaction and pride in 
the magnificent display made this afternoon by the 
Navy." Then, when the Queen has left the lines, 
the salute is repeated and the Review is over. 

After the Review numerous small tenders con- 
veyed the visitors from the big ships into the har- 
bor, as the tide was too low to allow the troop-ships 
to go in. 

Soon after eight o'clock the small vessels began 
to steam out of the harbor and to take up their 
positions for the last but, perhaps, most attractive 
part of the day's programme. 

When it was dark enough, a signal-gun was 
fired, and immediately the form of every vessel in 
the fleet was revealed by a rainbow of lights from 

the bowsprit, over the mastheads, and down to the 
stern. Another row of lamps was placed along 
the upper deck; the turrets of all the mastless 
vessels were outlined by colored lamps, which 
made them look like so many fairy castles, instead 
of what they really were, massive towers of strength 
armed with ponderous guns, capable of hurling 
ruin and death into the ranks of the enemy. Be- 
tween the masts of the ships there appeared in 
large letters of electric light the Royal initials, 
" V. R." Rows of colored fireworks, alternating 
with bouquets of high-soaring rockets, illuminated 
the scene. Change after change of color and de- 
vice awoke the admiration of the thousands afloat 
and ashore, till at length there flashed from every 
ship a searching beam from an electric light. 
These beams lighted up the shores of Gosport and 
Southsea on one side, and the Isle of Wight on 
the other. They displayed the buildings, and the 
crowds of people massed together along the beach 
and on the house-tops, and for a time converted 
night into day. After some minutes of play from 
these electric search-lights, which in warfare would 
be used to discover the presence of hostile ships 
probably a tiny torpedo-boat stealthily approach- 
ing under the cover of darkness, the beams were 
directed high into the air, and being turned in- 
ward, they met in the clouds between the two lines 
of ships, and so formed a series of beautiful, pointed 
arches of light. Words can not express the grand- 
eur of the scene at this moment. Imagine for 
yourselves two long lines of massive ironclads 
stretching away till, by perspective, they seem to 
meet. The forms of their hulls, the graceful 
tracery of their tapered spars, are outlined in dots 
of various-colored lights. The waters on which 
these vessels proudly ride are gently rippled by 
the cool night-wind, till every dancing wave reflects 
a thousand tiny rays borrowed from the fairy lamps 
around, making the whole surface of the sea look 
like a floor paved with deep-blue turquoise, and 
densely strewn with diamonds. 

Above, the lofty pointed arch of soft white light 
conceals from view the dark clouds, and dims the 
stars, which seem to vie with the myriad electric 
lamps defining the forest of masts and yards on 
either hand. We can not believe that we are afloat 
on a real sea and surrounded by the implements 
of all that is crudest and most horrible on earth — 
War. But the steam-whistles, which have been 
used during the evening to order the changes in 
the illuminations, now suddenly scream out their 
final signal. 

As if a curtain had dropped before our eyes, all 
becomes suddenly black, the darkness seeming 
darker by the suddenness of the change. But as 
our vision becomes accustomed to the dimmer 



2 9 

light, the stars shine out, as if in triumph at hav- 
ing outlasted their transitory rivals. 

And now we realize our sudden return to earth. 
The rattle of the chain as the anchor of our little 
craft comes up, then the splash of the paddles as 
they slowly revolve, tell us that we are once more 
bound for the harbor. We pick our way cautiously 

through a shoal of other vessels, great and small, 
all racing for home now that the great show is 
over. The monster pageant has required months of 
time and many thousands of hands in its prepara- 
tion, but its triumphant success is the best reward 
to those who have labored so long and so faith- 
fully to achieve it. 

w "~ 

/ v \y tree.3 ^U 1H\ <j° Very gretK 
lycjr bra-jMtj f/^vtr fcl ov/ 
I ioMb V ov:/ yVt t(7Ctr°uWfiiv 

By Ida C. Hodnett. 

mechanic rank, called Shokunin (slw-koo-neen). 
Fourth : The merchant rank, called Chonin (cho- 

There were two sets lower than these: the Eta, 
workers in raw hides ; and the Hinin, squatters on 
wastelands — the lowest class of beggars. Both 
were outcasts. 

The degrees in rank above the main body of the 
people stood thus : 

First : The Mikado, or Emperor, and the royal 
families. Second: The Kuge (pronounced koo-gd), 
or the court nobles. Third : The Shogun (sho- 
goon) families. Shogun meant the governing man, 
chief general. Fourth : The Daimio (di-myo) 
families. Daimio meant masters of provinces, or 
territorial nobles. 

There were many subdivisions of rank among 
these noble families, but the two great divisions 
were the court nobility and the sword, or warrior, 

Twenty-one years ago, the Emperor of Japan 
was a mere figurehead, and his predecessors for 
more than five hundred years had been little more. 
They lived in strict seclusion and exercised no rul- 
ing power. Only a few nobles of the highest rank 
had the privilege of beholding the Emperor's face. 
The Japanese throne has never been bandied 
about from one dynasty to another. Their his- 
tory begins twenty-five hundred and forty-nine 
years ago, before Nebuchadnezzar conquered the 
Jews. During this time, one hundred and twenty- 
three sovereigns have sat on the throne, nine of 
whom have been women ; and all have belonged 
to this one dynasty. It is a nameless dynasty, for 
it is beyond the need of a family name. 

Jimmu, the first Emperor of Japan, was rever- 
ently believed to be the great-grandson of Ninigi, 
the grandson of the sun-goddess, sent by her to 
rule over the earth. From this belief in the divine 
origin of the imperial family, arose two of the many 
titles of the Mikado, namely: " Tenshi " (pro- 

I APANESE dolls, fans, 
screens, parasols, tea- 
cups and tea-pots, and 
bric-a-brac of various 
kinds are familiar ob- 
jects to our girls and 
boys. Many have seen some of the Japanese them- 
selves, and know that there are several hundreds of 
their educated class in this country, in business or 
at school, studying our civilization and sciences ; 
but few young Americans have clear ideas of the 
present or former condition of this remarkable 

We, the people of the United States, were the 
first among nations to knock at Japan's door and 
ask to be on visiting terms with our far-off neigh- 
bor, who for about two hundred and fifty years 
had lived like a hermit. That knock hastened the 
Japanese revolution, and this revolution overthrew 
their double system of government and restored 
the Mikado to his proper place as the real ruler of 
the country. 

This "land of dainty decoration" is destined to 
stand high among the world's nations. The strides 
it has made in civilization since that revolution of 
twenty years ago remind us of the boy who stole 
the giant's seven-leagued boots, in the fairy-tale. 

Although they are studying us, as well as our 
sciences, our religion, and our civilization, they 
have no intention of adopting all our customs. On 
the contrary, they are examining our ways care- 
fully, in order that they may adopt the good, and 
reject the bad or whatever is unsuited to their con- 
ditions of life. 

Here are a few facts about the Japanese which 
will not be difficult to remember. 

Before their revolution of 1868, the people other 
than the nobility were divided into four ranks : 

First : The warrior rank, called Samurai (pro- 
nounced sah-moo-ri). Second : The farmer rank, 
called Hyakusho (hyah-koo-sho). Third : The 



nounced ten-skee), "the son of heaven," and 
"Tenno" (pronounced ten-no), '"'the sovereign 
from heaven," or " appointed by heaven." Tenno 
is the title required to be used officially. 

The form of government was an absolute mon- 
archy, and the early emperors were the direct 
executive heads. The empire was divided into 
gun (goon), or provinces, and these subdivided 
into ken. This was called the gun-ken system, 
and the whole was under the rule of the Emperor. 

There was, from very early times, a Shogun, or 
general ; but at first his power was small. Yori- 
tomo, one of the most celebrated men in Japanese 
history, obtained great power during a civil war in 
the twelfth century by restoring order and estab- 
lishing firm government. He became the most 
powerful subject in the empire, and the Mikado 
appointed him Sei Tai Shogun (say ti sho-goon) in 
1 192. This title means " Barbarian-quelling Great 
General," and it was the greatest honor that could 
be bestowed on a subject. The whole country was 
placed under military rule, and this was the begin- 
ning of the double system of Japanese govern- 
ment. Gradually, more and more power was 
concentrated in the Shogun's hands, while only 
empty dignities and numerous titles were left to 
the Emperor. 

That "son of heaven," however, though often a 
child, was the source of all rank and dignity ; and 
though the office of Shogun became hereditary in 
certain families, and though the Shogun lived 
with the pomp and splendor of a king, he always 
owed his appointment to the Emperor. The 
Shogun assumed the protectorship of the Emperor. 

This form of government was called the Sho- 

The office belonged in turn to several families. 
The last dynasty of shoguns was the Tokugawa 
( to-koo-gah-wah ) family. The founder, Tokugawa 
Iyeyasu (e-ya-yas-oo) of the noble Minamoto stock, 
seized the supreme power in 1603, and held it with 
a strong hand. His dynasty continued in power 
until 1868, a period of two hundred and sixty-five 
years. This was a period of peace in Japan and 
continued until their late civil war. 

The rulers immediately under the Shogun, and 
owing him military service, were the daimio (dl- 
myo). There were three ranks of daimio ; Koku- 
shiu (ko-koo-she-oo), the greater landed-lords ; 
Tozama (tS-zah-mak), the smaller landed-lords ; 
and Fudai (foo-dl), the generals and captains to 
whom the Tokugawa family gave land in reward 
for services. 

These lords had many subordinate officers of 
various degrees in rank, all, however, being samu- 
rai, or warriors. Every warrior was attached to 
some daimio, and therefore was a kerai (ka-ri), 

or vassal. Those who left the service of their 
lords for any purpose were called ronin (ro-necn), 
or masterless men. 

The feudal system had a very minute code of 
honor, and there grew out of it a most exalted 
sense of loyalty and devotion. History is full of 
the stories of men who sacrificed their lives for 
their lords ; but the rule did not work both ways — 
the lord did not lay down his life for his vassal. 

The farmers and other classes in the province of 
the daimio put themselves under his protection, and 
paid him tribute. These taxes were enormous, for 
upon them depended the support of the unproduct- 
ive class, the two-sworded gentry called Samurai, 
or warriors. So all revenue came into the hands 
of the military class, and the Kuge, or court nobles, 
became very poor in this world's goods, but not 
poor in spirit. The lowest Kuge was superior in 
rank to the Shogun. 

Besides the Emperor's family there were set 
apart four families of imperial descent, from whom 
the Emperor might choose an heir for the throne 
in case there was no heir in his own family. The 
throne did not always descend to the eldest son, 
but the father might choose as heir the son who 
seemed to him most suitable. The Emperor's 
daughters sometimes married nobles, and some- 
times married into the royal families belonging to 
the dynasty. 

Under this double system of government, the 
Mikado and the Shogun, the outside world sup- 
posed there were two emperors, one a spiritual, 
the other a temporal emperor. This " temporal 
Emperor" was merely the Mikado's general. The 
Mikado, the " son of heaven," lived at Kioto, a 
city beautifully situated, in a palace much like a 
temple in outward appearance, but with little of 
the splendor of a European palace. Magnificence 
of display might do very well for upstart generals, 
but was unseemly for the semi-divinity of royalty. 
The Shogun lived at Yeddo, which was thus the real 
seat of government. 

In 1853, Millard Fillmore, President of the 
United States, sent Commodore Perry with a 
large squadron of well-equipped vessels, to convey 
a letter to the Emperor of Japan asking that a 
treaty might be made between the two nations. 
The formidable appearance of the steam-vessels 
greatly frightened the hermit nation, but com- 
pelled a respectful reception of the mission of the 
" savages." A high official was sent to receive the 
letter, which was delivered, not to the Emperor, 
but to the Shogun, who called himself the " Tai 
Kun" (Tl-koon), meaning great prince or ruler. 
The Mikado never bestowed this title on any one, 
and the Shogun had not before formally assumed it. 

In 1S54 the Shogun made a treaty with the 


United States, and shortly afterward with England, 
France, Holland, and Austria. These treaties 
opened a few ports, and when they were ratified in 
1859, these were made ports of trade, as well as 
ports of entry and supply. But these treaties had 
not received the sanction of the Mikado, and were 
not really legal. In making them the Shogunate 
pretended to be the supreme power in Japan, while 
it was not. This deceit hastened its downfall. A 
few Japanese saw the necessity of opening the ports, 
but by far the greater part were jo-i (jo-ee), for- 
eigner-haters. The original meaning of jo-i was 
" Keep back, savage." 

There were many deep students and thinkers 
among both the kuze and the daimio families, who 
longed to see the Mikado again the ruler of the 
nation. The Americans, English, French, and 
Dutch were pressing their claims for entrance and 
trade. The Mikado disapproved of the treaties 
when they were reported to him, and this excited 
intense wrath all over the land. The cry arose, 
" Honor the Mikado, and drive out the barbarian." 

Civil war broke out, followed by ruin and 
desolation. The war cry was, Daigi meibun (Di-gee 
ma-boon), meaning, " The King and the subject." 
Finally, on November 9, 1867, Tokugawa Keiki 
formally resigned the office of Sei Tai Shogun. 
The Mikado, Komei (Komay), died about the same 
time, and his son, Mutsuhito (Moot-soo-hl-to), a 
boy of seventeen, was thereupon declared sole sov- 

The office of Shogun was abolished, and a pro- 
visional government was formed on the 3d of Jan- 
uary, 1868. The government intended to expel 
the foreigners, but knew it was then not strong 
enough. So they waited in order that they might 
gain strength. 

Now the followers of the Tokugawa families 
had seen that it was the best thing for Japan to 
introduce foreign civilization. They being out of 
power, it seemed that Japan would relapse into 
strict seclusion, and again lead the life of a hermit- 
crab. But Mr. W. E. Griffis, one of the professors 
of the Imperial University of Tokio, Japan, from 
1872 to 1874, says the noblest trait in the Japanese 
character is willingness to change, when con- 
vinced of error or inferiority. The samurai lead- 
ers of the restoration induced the imperial court to 
invite the foreign ministers to an audience. A per- 
sonal meeting helped to make the court nobles see 
things more clearly. They had thought all for- 
eigners beasts. They found them honorable men, 
and with noble humility acknowledged their error 
and made friends. 

Peace did not come all at once. There had been 
many murders of foreigners, of Americans, English- 
men, and men of other nationalities, by fanatical 
assassins, and danger lurked in secret places. But 
in justice it should be said that these murders were 
often provoked by insolence on the part of the for- 
eigners. Nevertheless, the path to modern civiliza- 
tion had been opened, and in that path the devoted 
Japanese leaders have steadily led their people. 

The young Mikado, Mutsuhito, the 123d Emperor 
of the nameless dynasty, was the first of his line to 
take oath as a ruler. 

On the 12th of April, 1868, he made oath before 
gods and men that " a deliberative assembly 
should be formed ; all measures should be de- 
cided by public opinion ; . . . and that intellect 
and learning should be sought for throughout the 
world, in order to establish the foundations of the 

This oath was reaffirmed October 12, 1881, and 
the year 1890 is fixed as the time for limiting the 
imperial prerogative, forming two houses of parlia- 
ment, and transforming the government into a 
constitutional monarchy. 

The Emperor's capital was changed from Kioto 
to Yeddo, which was re-named, and called Tokio. 

Feudalism, or the holding of fiefs by the daimio, 
came to an end in 1871, by imperial edict, and 
the whole of great Japan was again directly under 
the Mikado's rule. 

The titles of kuge and daimio were also abol- 
ished, both being re-named simply Kuasoku (Koo- 
as-o-koo), or noble families. The distinctions 
between the lower orders of people were scat- 
tered to the winds, and even the despised outcasts 
were made citizens, protected by law. 

The degrees in rank among the Japanese are 
now as follows : 

First. The Emperor and the royal families. 

Second. The Kuasoku, the noble families. 

Third. The Shizoku (Shee-zB-koo), the gentry. 

Fourth. The Heimin (Ha-meen), the citizens in 

The results of the Japanese Revolution may be 
summed up thus : 

First. The restoration of the Mikado as ruler, 
and ending of the Shogunate. 

Second. The opening of the entire country to 

Third. The gradual abolition of rank in the 
main body of the people, giving all equal rights 
under the law. 

Old Japan has gone ! Long live the New ! 


By Mary E. Wilkins. 


"What is it, child?" 

" You goin' to put that cup-cake into the pan 
to bake it now, Grandma?" 

"Yes; I guess so. It 's beat 'bout enough." 

" You ain't put in a mite of nutmeg, Grandma." 

The grandmother turned around to Ann Mary. 
"Don't you be quite so anxious," said she with 
sarcastic emphasis. "I allers put the nutmeg in 
cup-cake the very last thing. I ruther guess I 
should n't have put this cake into the oven without 
nutmeg ! " 

The old woman beat fiercely on the cake. She 
used her hand instead of a spoon, and she held the 
yellow mixing-bowl poised on her hip under her 
arm. She was stout and rosy-faced. She had crinkly 
white hair, and she always wore a string of gold 
beads around her creasy neck. She never took 
off the gold beads except to put them under her pil- 
low at night, she was so afraid of their being stolen. 
Old Mrs. Little had always been nervous about 
thieves, although none had ever troubled her. 

" You may go into the pantry, an' bring out the 
nutmeg now, Ann Mary," said she presently, with 

Ann Mary soberly slipped down from her chair 
and went. She realized that she had made a 
mistake. It was quite an understood thing for 
Ann Mary to have an eye upon her grandmother 
while she was cooking, to be sure that she put in 
everything that she should, and nothing that she 
should not, for the old woman was absent-minded. 
But it had to be managed with great delicacy, and 
the corrections had to be quite irrefutable, or Ann 
Mary was reprimanded for her pains. 

When Ann Mary had deposited the nutmeg-box 
and the grater at her grandmother's elbow, she 
took up her station again. She sat at a corner of 
the table in one of the high kitchen-chairs. Her 
feet could not touch the floor, and they dangled 
uneasily in their stout leather shoes, but she never 
rested them on the chair round, nor even swung 
them by way of solace. Ann Mary's grandmother 
did not like to have her chair rounds all marked up 
by shoes, and swinging feet disturbed her while 
she was cooking. Ann Mary sat up, grave and 
straight. She was a delicate, slender little girl, 
but she never stooped. She had an odd resem- 
Vol. XVI.— 3. 3: 

blance to her grandmother ; a resemblance more 
of manner than of feature. She held back her 
narrow shoulders in the same determined way 
in which the old woman held her broad ones; she 
walked as she did, and spoke as she did. 

Mrs. Little was very proud of Ann Mary Evans; 
Ann Mary was her only daughter's child, and had 
lived with her grandmother ever since she was a 
baby. The child could not remember either her 
father or mother, she was so little when they died. 

Ann Mary was delicate, so she did not go to the 
village to the public school. Miss Loretta Adams, 
a young lady who lived in the neighborhood, gave 
her lessons. Loretta had graduated in a beautiful 
white muslin dress at the high-school over in the 
village, and Ann Mary had a great respect and 
admiration for her. Loretta had a parlor-organ 
and could play on it, and she was going to give 
Ann Mary lessons after Thanksgiving. Just now 
there was a vacation. Loretta had gone to Boston 
to spend two weeks with her cousin. 

Ann Mary was all in brown, a brown calico dress 
and a brown calico, long-sleeved apron ; and her 
brown hair was braided in two tight little tails that 
were tied with some old brown bonnet-strings of 
Mrs. Little's, and flared out stiffly behind the ears. 
Once, when Ann Mary was at her house, Loretta 
Adams had taken it upon herself to comb out the 
tight braids and set the hair flowing in a fluffy mass 
over the shoulders ; but when Ann Mary came 
home her grandmother was properly indignant. 
She seized her and re-braided the tails with stout 
and painful jerks. " I ain't goin' to have Loretty 
Adams meddlin' with your hair," said she, "an' 
she can jest understand it. If she wants to have 
her own hair all in a frowzle, an' look like a wild 
Injun, she can ; you sha' n't ! " 

And Ann Mary, standing before her grandmother 
with head meekly bent and watery eyes, decided 
that she would have to tell Loretta that she must n't 
touch the braids, if she proposed it again. 

That morning, while Mrs. Little was making the 
pies and the cake and the pudding, Ann Mary was 
sitting idle, for her part of the Thanksgiving cook- 
ing was done. She had worked so fast, the day 
before and early that morning, that she had the 
raisins all picked over and seeded, and the apples 
pared and sliced; and that was about all that her 





grandmother thought she could do. Ann Mary 
herself was of a different opinion; she was twelve 
years old, if she was small for her age, and she 
considered herself quite capable of making pies 
and cup-cake. 

However, it was something to sit there at the 
table and have that covert sense of superintending 
her grandmother; and to be reasonably sure that 
some of the food would have a strange flavor were 
it not for her vigilance. 

Mrs. Little's mince-pies had all been baked the 
Saturday before ; to-day, as she said, she was 
" making apple and squash." While the apple- 
pies were in progress, Ann Mary watched her nar- 
rowly. Her small folded hands twitched and her 
little neck seemed to elongate above her apron ; 
but she waited until her grandmother took up an 
upper crust, and was just about to lay it over a pie. 
Then she spoke up suddenly. Her voice had a 
timid yet assertive chirp like a bird's. 

" Grandma! " 

"Well, what is it, child?" 

"You goin' to put that crust on that pie now, 
Grandma? " 

Mrs. Little stood uneasily reflective. She eyed 
the pie sharply. " Yes, I be. Why ? " she returned 
in a doubtful yet defiant manner. 

" You have n't put one bit of sugar in." 

" For the land sakes ! " Mrs. Little did not take 
correction of this kind happily, but when she was 
made to fairly acknowledge the need of it, she 
showed no resentment. She laid the upper crust 
back on the board and sweetened the pie. Ann 
Mary watched her gravely, but she was inwardly 
complacent. After she had rescued the pudding 
from being baked without the plums, and it was 
nearly dinner-time, her grandfather came home. 
He had been over to the village to buy the Thanks- 
giving turkey. Ann Mary looked out with delight 
when he drove past the windows on his way to the 

" Grandpa's got home," said she. 

It was snowing quite hard, and she saw the 
old man and the steadily tramping white horse 
and the tilting wagon through a thick mist of fall- 
ing snowflakes. 

Before Mr. Little came into the kitchen, his wife 
warned him to be sure to wipe all the snow from 
his feet, and not to track in any, so he stamped 
vigorously out in the shed. Then he entered with 
an air of pride. "There !" said he, "what do ye 
think of that for a turkey ? " Mr. Little was gen- 
erally slow and gentle in his ways, but to-day he 
was quite excited over the turkey. He held it up 
with considerable difficulty. He was a small old 
man, and the cords on his lean hands knotted. 
"It weighs a good fifteen pound'," said he, "an' 

there was n't a better one in the store. Adkins 
did n't have a very big lot on hand." 

" I should think that was queer, the day before 
Thanksgivin'," said Mrs. Little. She was exam- 
ining the turkey critically. " I guess it '11 do," she 
declared finally. That was her highest expression 
of approbation. "Well, I rayther thought you'd 
think so," rejoined the old man, beaming. "I 
guess it's about as good a one as can be got, — they 
said 'twas, down there. Sam White he was in 
there, and he said 't was ; he said I was goin' to get 
it in pretty good season for Thanksgivin', he 

" I don't think it 's such very extra season, the 
day before Thanksgivin'," said Mrs. Little. 

"Well, I don't think 'twas, nuther. I didn't 
see jest what Sam meant by it." 

Ann Mary was dumb with admiration. When the 
turkey was laid on the broad shelf in the pantry, 
she went and gazed upon it. In the afternoon 
there was great enjoyment seeing it stuffed and 
made ready for the oven. Indeed, this day was 
throughout one of great enjoyment, being full of 
the very aroma of festivity and good cheer and 
gala times, and even sweeter than the occasion 
which it preceded. Ann Mary had only one 
damper all day, and that was the non-arrival of a 
letter. Mrs. Little had invited her son and his 
family to spend Thanksgiving, but now they prob- 
ably were not coming, since not a word in reply had 
been received. When Mr. Little said there was 
no letter in the post-office, Ann Mary's face fell. 
"Oh, dear," said she, "don't you suppose Lucy 
will come, Grandma?" 

" No," replied her grandmother, "I don't. Ed- 
ward never did such a thing as not to send me word 
when he was comin', in his life, nor Maria neither. 
I ain't no idee they '11 come." 

" Oh, dear ! " said Ann Mary again. 

" Well, you '11 have to make up your mind to it," 
returned her grandmother ; she was sore over her 
own disappointment, and so was irascible toward 
Ann Mary's. " It 's no worse for you than for the 
rest of us. I guess you can keep one Thanksgivin' 
without Lucy." 

For a while it almost seemed to Ann Mary that 
she could not. Lucy was her only cousin. She 
loved Lucy dearly, and she was lonesome for an- 
other little girl ; nobody knew how she had counted 
upon seeing her cousin. Ann Mary herself had a 
forlorn hope that Lucy still might come, even if 
Uncle Edward was always so particular about send- 
ing word and no word had been received. On 
Thanksgiving morning she kept running to the 
window, and looking down the road. But when 
the stage from the village came, it passed right 
by the house without slackening its speed. 




Then there was no hope left at all. mind that. She carried the dinner with great care ; 

" You might jest as well be easy," said her grand- there was a large plate well filled, and a tin dish 

mother. " I guess you can have a good Thanks- was turned over it to keep it warm. Sarah Bean 

givin' if Lucy ain't here. This evenin' you can ask was an old woman who lived alone. Her house 

Loretty to come over a little while, if you want to, was about a quarter of a mile from the Littles', 
an' you can make some nut- 
candy." iillfi'l''' 

" Loretta ain't at home." 'ill' ) I 

" She '11 come home for 
Thanksgivin', I guess. It 
ain't very likely she 's stayed 
away over that. When I 
get the dinner ready to take 
up, you can carry a plateful 
down to Sarah Bean's, an' 
that '11 be somethin' for you 
to do, too. I guess you can 

Thanksgiving day was a 
very pleasant day, although 
there was considerable snow 
on the ground, for it had 
snowed all the day before. 
Mr. Little and Ann Mary did 
not go to church as usual, on 
that account. 

The old man did not like 
to drive to the village before 
the roads were beaten out. 
Mrs. Little lamented not a 
little over it. It was the 
custom for her husband and 
granddaughter to attend 
church Thanksgiving morn- 
ing, while she stayed at 
home and cooked the din- 
ner. " It does seem dread- 
ful heathenish for nobody to 
go to meetin' Thanksgivin' 
day,"saidshe; "an' we ain't 
even heard the proclama- 
tion read, neither. It rained 
so hard last Sabbath that 
we could n't go." 

The season was unusually 
wintry and severe, and lately 
the family had been pre- 
vented from church-going. 

It was two Sundays since any of the family had 
gone. The village was three miles away, and the 
road was rough. Mr. Little was too old to drive 
over it in very bad weather. 

When Ann Mary went to carry the plate of deaf and infirm, all her joints shook when she 
Thanksgiving dinner to Sarah Bean, she wore a tried to use them, and her voice quavered when 
pair of her grandfather's blue woolen socks drawn she talked. She took the plate, and her hands 
over her shoes to keep out the snow. The snow trembled so that the tin dish played on the plate 
was rather deep for easy walking, but she did not like a clapper. "Why," said she, overjoyed, 


When Ann Mary reached the house, she found 
the old woman making a cup of tea. There did 
not seem to be much of anything but tea and 
bread and butter for her dinner. She was very 





"this looks just like Thanksgiving da)', tell your 
Grandma ! " 

"Why, it is Thanksgiving day," declared Ann 
Mar)-, with some wonder. 

"What?" asked Sarah Bean. 

"It is Thanksgiving day, you know." But it 
was of no use, the old woman could not hear a word. 
Ann Mary's voice was too low. 

Ann Mary could not walk very fast on account 
of the snow. She was absent some three-quarters 
of an hour; her grandmother had told her that 
dinner would be all on the table when she returned. 
She was enjoying the nice things in anticipation all 
the way ; when she came near the house, she could 
smell roasted turkey, and there was also a sweet 
spicy odor in the air. 

She noticed with surprise that a sleigh had been 
in the yard. " I wonder who 's come," she said to 
herself. She thought of Lucy, and whether they 
could have driven over from the village. She ran 
in. " Why, who 's come? " she cried out. 

Her voice sounded like a shout in her own ears ; 
it seemed to awaken echoes. She fairly startled 
herself, for there was no one in the room. There 
was absolute quiet through all the house. There 
was even no sizzling from the kettles on the stove, 
for everything had been dished up. The veget- 
ables, all salted and peppered and buttered, were 
on the table — but the turkey was not there. In the 
great vacant place where the turkey should have 
been was a piece of white paper. Ann Mary spied 
it in a moment. She caught it up and looked at 
it. It was a note from her grandmother : 

We have had word that Aunt Betsey has had a bad turn. Lizz 
wants us to come. The dinner is all ready for you. If we ain't 
home to-night, you can get Loretty to stay with you. Be a good girl. 


Ann Mary read the note and stood reflecting, 
her mouth drooping at the corners. Aunt Betsey 
was Mrs. Little's sister; Lizz was her daughter 
who lived with her and took care of her. They 
lived in Derby, and Derby was fourteen miles away. 
It seemed a long distance to Ann Mary, and she 
felt sure that her grandparents could not come 
home that night. She looked around the empty 
room, and sighed. After a while she sat down 
and pulled off the snowy socks; she thought she 
might as well eat her dinner, although she did not 
feel so hungry as she had expected. Everything 
was on the table but the turkey and plum-pud- 
ding. Ann Mary supposed these were in the 
oven keeping warm ; the door was ajar. But, when 
she looked, they were not there. She went into the 
pantry ; they were not there either. It was very 
strange ; there was the dripping-pan in which the 
turkey had been baked, on the back of the stove, 

with some gravy in it ; and there was the empty 
pudding-dish on the hearth. 

" What has Grandma done with the turkey and 
the plum-pudding?" said Ann Mary aloud. 

She looked again in the pantry ; then she went 
down cellar — there seemed to be so few places in 
the house in which it was reasonable to search for 
a turkey and a plum-pudding ! 

Finally she gave it up, and sat down to dinner. 
There was plenty of squash, and potatoes, and tur- 
nips, and onions, and beets, and cranberry-sauce, 
and pies ; but it was no Thanksgiving dinner with- 
out turkey and plum-pudding. It was like a great 
flourish of accompaniment without any song. 

Ann Mary did as well as she could ; she put some 
turkey-gravy on her potato and filled up her plate 
with vegetables; but she did not enjoy the dinner. 
She felt more and more lonely, too. She resolved 
that after she had washed up the dinner dishes, 
and changed her dress, she would go over to 
Loretta Adams's. It was quite a piece of work, 
washing the dinner dishes, there were so many pans 
and kettles ; it was the middle of the afternoon 
when she finished. Then Ann Mary put on her 
best plaid dress, and tied her best red ribbons on 
her braids, and it was four o'clock before she 
started for Loretta's. 

Loretta lived in a white cottage about half a 
mile away toward the village. The front yard had 
many bushes in it, and the front path was bordered 
with box; the bushes were now mounds of snow, 
and the box was indicated by two snowy ridges. 

The house had a shut-up look; the sitting-room 
curtains were down. Ann Mary went around to 
the side door ; but it was locked. Then she went 
up the front walk between the snowy ridges of box, 
and tried the front door; that also was locked. 
The Adamses had gone away. Ann Mary did 
not know what to do. The tears stood in her 
eyes, and she choked a little. She went back 
and forth between the two doors, and shook and 
pounded ; she peeked around the corner of the 
curtain into the sitting-room. She could see 
Loretta's organ, with the music book, and all the 
familiar furniture, but the room wore an utterly 
deserted air. 

Finally, Ann Mary sat down on the front door- 
step, after she had brushed off the snow a little. 
She had made up her mind to wait a little while, 
and see if the folks would not come home. She 
had on her red hood, and her grandmother's old 
plaid shawl. She pulled the shawl tightly around 
her, and muffled her face in it; it was extremely 
cold weather for sitting on a doorstep. Just 
across the road was a low clump of birches; 
through and above the birches the sky showed red 
and clear where the sun was setting. Everything 





looked cold and bare and desolate to the little girl 
who was trying to keep Thanksgiving. Suddenly 
she heard a little cry, and Loretta's white cat came 
around the corner of the house. 

" Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," called Ann Mary. She 
was very fond of Loretta's cat ; she had none of 
her own. 

The cat came close and brushed around Ann 

was afraid to go in. She made up her mind to go 
down to Sarah Bean's and ask whether she could 
not stay all night there. 

So she kept on, and Loretta's white cat still fol- 
lowed her. There was no light in Sarah Bean's 
house. Ann Mary knocked and pounded, but it 
was of no use; the old woman had gone to bed, 
and she could not make her hear. 


Mary. So she took it up in her lap, and wrapped 
the shawl around it, and felt a little comforted. 

She sat there on the doorstep and held the cat, 
until it was quite dusky, and she was very stiff with 
the cold. Then she put down the cat, and pre- 
pared to go home. But she had not gone far along 
the road when she found out that the cat was fol- 
lowing her. The little white creature floundered 
through the snow at her heels, and mewed con- 
stantly. Sometimes it darted ahead and waited 
until she came up, but it did not seem willing to 
be carried in her arms. 

When Ann Mary reached her own house the 
lonesome look of it sent a chill all over her; she 

Ann Mary turned about and went home ; the 
tears were running down her cold red cheeks. The 
cat mewed louder than ever. When she got home 
she took the cat up and carried it into the house. 
She determined to keep it for company, anyway. 
She was sure, now, that she would have to stay 
alone all night; the Adamses and Sarah Bean were 
the only neighbors, and it was so late now that she 
had no hope of her grandparents' return. Ann 
Mary was timid and nervous, but she had a vein 
of philosophy, and she generally grasped the situ- 
ation with all the strength she had, when she be- 
came convinced that she must. She had laid her 
plans while walking home through the keen winter 





air, even as the tears were streaming over her 
cheeks, and she proceeded to carry them into 
execution. She gave Loretta's cat its supper, and 
she ate a piece of mince-pie herself; then she fixed 
the kitchen and the sitting-room fires, and locked 
up the house very thoroughly. Next, she took the 
cat and the lamp and went into the dark-bed- 
room, and locked the door; then she and the 
cat were as safe as she knew how to make them. 
The dark-bedroom was in the very middle of the 
house, the center of a nest of rooms. It was small 
and square, iad no windows, and only one door. 
It was a sort of fastness. Ann Mary made up 
her mind that she would not undress herself, and 
that she would keep the lamp burning all night. 
She climbed into the big yellow-posted bedstead, 
and the cat cuddled up to her and purred. 

Ann Mary lay in bed and stared at the white 
satin scrolls on the wall-paper, and listened for 
noises. She heard a great many, but they were all 
mysterious and indefinable, till about ten o'clock. 
Then she sat straight up in bed and her heart beat 
fast. She certainly heard sleigh-bells; the sound 
penetrated even to the dark-bedroom. Then came 
a jarring pounding on the side door. Ann Mary 
got up, unfastened the bedroom door, took the 
lamp, and stepped out into the sitting-room. The 
pounding came again. ''Ann Mary, Ann Mary! " 
cried a voice. It was her grandmother's. 

" I 'm comin', I 'm comin', Grandma ! " shouted 
Ann Mary. She had never felt so happy in her 
life. She pushed back the bolt of the side door 
with trembling haste. There stood her grand- 
mother all muffled up, with a shawl over her head ; 
and out in the yard were her grandfather and 
another man, and a horse and sleigh. The men 
were turning the sleigh around. 

" Put the lamp in the window, Ann Mary," 
called Mr. Little, and Ann Mary obeyed. Her 
grandmother sank into a chair. " I 'm jest about 
tuckered out," she groaned. " If I don't ketch my 
death with this day's work, I 'm lucky. There 
ain't any more feelin' in my feet than as if they 
was lumps of stone." 

Ann Mary stood at her grandmother's elbow, and 
her face was all beaming. " I thought you were n't 
coming," said she. 

"Well, I should n't have come a step to-night, 
if it hadn't been for you — and the cow," said her 
grandmother in an indignant voice. "I was kind 
of uneasy about you, an' we knew the cow would n't 
be milked unless you got Mr. Adams to come 
over. " 

"Was Aunt Betsey very sick?" inquired Ann 

• Her grandmother gave her head a toss. "Sick! 
No, there wa'n't a thing the matter with her, ex- 

cept she ate some sassage-meat, an' had a little faint 
turn. Lizz was scart to death, the way she always 
is. She did n't act as if she knew whether her 
head was on, all the time we were there. She did 
n't act as if she knew 't was Thanksgivin' day ; an' 
she did n't have no turkey that I could see. Aunt 
Betsey bein' took sick seemed to put everythin' out 
of her head. I never saw such a nervous thing as 
she is. I was all out of patience when I got there. 
Betsey did n't seem to be very bad off, an' there 
we 'd hurried enough to break our necks. We 
did n't dare to drive around to Sarah Bean's to let 
you know about it, for we was afraid we 'd miss the 
train. We jest got in with the man that brought 
the word, an' he driv as fast as he could over to the 
village, an' then we lost the train, an' had to sit 
there in the depot two mortal hours. An' now 
we 've come fourteen mile' in an open sleigh. The 
man that lives next door to Betsey said he 'd bring 
us home, an' I thought we 'd better come. He 's go- 
in' over to the village to-night ; he 's got folks there. 
I told him he 'd a good deal better stay here, but he 
won't. He 's as deaf as an adder, an' you can't 
make him hear anythin', anyway. We ain't spoke 
a word all the way home. Where 's Loretty ? She 
came over to stay with you, did n't she? " 

Ann Mary explained that Loretta was not at 

" That 's queer, seems to me, Thanksgivin' 
day," said her grandmother. " Massy sakes, what 
cat 's that ? She came out of the settin'-room ! " 

Ann Mary explained about Loretta's cat. Then 
she burst forth with the question that had been 
uppermost in her mind ever since her grandmother 
came in. "Grandma," said she, "what did you 
do with the turkey and the plum-pudding?" 

" What ? " 

"What did you do with the turkey and the 
plum-pudding? " 

" The turkey an' the plum-puddin' ? " 

"Yes; I could n't find 'em anywhere." 

Mrs. Little, who had removed her wraps, and 
was crouching over the kitchen stove, with her 
feet in the oven, looked at Ann Mary with a dazed 

'■ I dunno what you mean, child," said she. 

Mr. Little had helped the man with the sleigh 
to start, and had now come in. He was pulling 
off his boots. 

" Don't you remember, Mother," said he, " how 
you run back in the house, an' said you was goin' 
to set that turkey an' plum-pudding away, for you 
was afraid to leave 'em settin' right out in plain 
sight on the table, for fear that somebody might 
come in ? " 

"Yes: I do remember," said Mrs. Little. "I 
thought they looked 'most too temptin'. I set 'em 





in the pantry. I thought Ann Mary could get 'em 
when she came in." 

" They ain't in the pantry," said Ann Mary. 

Her grandmother arose and went into the pantry 
with a masterful air. " Ain't in the pantry?" she 

out of the pantry with dignity. " I 've set 'em some- 
where," said she in a curt voice, " an' I '11 find 'em 
in the mornin'. You don't want any turkey or 
plum-puddin' to-night, neither of you ! " 

But Mrs. Little did not find the turkey and the 


repeated. "I don't s'pose you more 'n gave one 

Ann Mary followed her grandmother. She fairly 
expected to see the turkey and the pudding before 
her eyes on the shelf and to admit that she had 
been mistaken. Mr. Little also followed, and they 
all stood in the pantry and looked about. 

" I guess they ain't here, Mother," said Mr. 
Little. '• Can't you think where you set 'em ? " 

The old woman took up the lamp and stepped 

plum-pudding in the morning. Some days went 
by, and their whereabouts was as much a mystery 
as ever. Mrs. Little could not remember where 
she had put them ; but it had been in some secure 
hiding-place, since her own wit which had placed 
them there could not find it out. She was so mor- 
tified and worried over it, that she was nearly ill. 
She tried to propound the theory, and believe in it 
herself, that she had really set the turkey and the 
pudding in the pantry, and that they had been 



stolen; but she was too honest. " I 've heerd of 
folks puttin' things in such safe places that they 
could n't find 'em, before now," said she ; " but I 
never heerd of losin' a turkey an' a plum-puddin' 
that way. I dunno but I 'm losin' what little wits 
I ever did have." She went about with a humble 
and resentful air. She promised Ann Mary that 
she would cook another turkey and pudding the 
first of the week, if the missing ones were not 

Sunday came and they were not discovered. It 
was a pleasant day, and the Littles went to the 
village to church. Ann Mary looked over across 
the church after they were seated and saw Loretta, 
with the pretty brown frizzes over her forehead, 
sitting between her father and mother, and she 
wondered when Loretta had come home. 

The choir sang and the minister prayed. Sud- 
denly Ann Mary saw him, standing there in the 
pulpit, unfold a paper. Then the minister began 
to read the Thanksgiving Proclamation. Ann 
Mary cast one scared glance at her grandmother, 
who returned it with one of inexpressible dignity 
and severity. 

As soon as Meeting was done, her grandmother 
clutched her by the arm. " Don't you say a word 
about it to anybody," she whispered. "You mind! " 

When they were in the sleigh going home, she 
charged her husband. " You mind, you keep still, 
Father," said she. " It '11 be town-talk if you don't." 

The old man chuckled. "Don't you know, I 
said once that I hed kind of an idee that Thanks- 
givin' were n't quite so early, and you shut me up, 
Mother," he remarked. He looked good-naturedly 

"Well, I dunno as it 's anything so very queer," 
said Mrs. Little. " It comes a whole week later 
than it did last year, and I s'posed we 'd missed 
hearin' the proclamation." 

The next day a letter arrived saying that Lucy 
and her father and mother were coming to spend 
Thanksgiving. " I feel jest about beat," Mrs. 
Little said when she read the letter. 

Really, she did feel about at her wit's end. The 
turkey and pudding were not yet found, and she 
had made up her mind that she would not dare 
wait much longer before providing more. She 
knew that another turkey must be procured, at all 
events. However, she waited until the last minute 
Wednesday afternoon, then she went to work mix- 
ing a pudding. Mr. Little had gone to the store 
for the turkey. " Sam White was over there, an' 

he said he thought we was goin' right into turkeys 
this year," he reported when he got home. 

That night the guests arrived. Thanksgiving 
morning, Lucy, and Ann Mary, and their grand- 
father, and Lucy's father and mother, were all go- 
ing to Meeting. Mrs. Little was to stay at home 
and cook the dinner. 

Thanksgiving morning, Mr. Little made a fire in 
the best-parlor air-tight stove, and just before they 
started for meeting, Lucy and Ann Mary were 
in the room. Lucy, in the big rocking-chair that 
was opposite the sofa, was rocking to and fro and 
talking. Ann Mary sat near the window. Each 
of the little girls had on her coat and hat. 

Suddenly Lucy stopped rocking and looked 
intently over toward the sofa. 

"What you lookin' at, Lucy?" asked Ann 
Mary, curiously. 

Lucy still looked. "Why — I was wondering 
what was under that sofa," said she slowly. Then 
she turned to Ann Mary, and her face was quite 
pale and startled — she had heard the turkey and 
pudding story. "Oh, Ann Mary, it does look — 
like — oh " 

Both little girls rushed to the sofa, and threw 
themselves on the floor. " Oh, oh, oh ! " they 
shrieked. "Grandma — Mother! Come quick, 
come quick ! " 

When the others came in, there sat Ann Mary 
and Lucy on the floor, and between them were 
the turkey and the plum-pudding, each carefully 
covered with a snow-white napkin. 

Mrs. Little was quite pale and trembling. " I 
remember now," said she faintly, " I run in here 
with 'em." 

She was so overcome that the others tried to 
take it quietly and not to laugh much. But every 
little while, after Lucy and Ann Mary were seated 
in church, they would look at each other and have 
to put their handkerchiefs to their faces. However, 
Ann Mary tried hard to listen to the sermon, and 
to behave well. In the depths of her childish 
heart she felt grateful and happy. There, by her 
side, sat her dear Lucy, whose sweet little face 
peeped out from a furry winter hat. Just across 
the aisle was Loretta, who was coming in the even- 
ing, and then they would pop corn and make nut- 
candy. At home there was the beautiful new 
turkey and unlimited pudding and good cheer, 
and all disappointment and mystery were done 
away with. 

Ann Mary felt as if all her troubles would be 
followed by thanksgivings. 



By John Todd Hill. 

LREADY hundreds of young 
Americans have taken up wood- 
carving as a pleasure and rec- 
reation, and hundreds more 
intend to practice the art. Some 
hints from a fellow-worker as 
to methods of work and uses of 
tools may therefore be of service to them. There 
is no art in which a little talent counts for so 

much. Within certain limits it is the easiest of 
the arts. You must draw and paint for years, 
before you can attain excellence. But you may 
begin carving a chest, or chair, or book-case, with 
your first lesson, and finish it so well that it will be 
a valuable piece of furniture a hundred years hence. 
Some of you may have seen the state bed at Had- 
don Hall, in England, in which Queen Elizabeth 
once slept. Its hangings were perhaps the best 




specimens of English embroidery of that period, 
but now the beautiful colors have faded into one 
dull hue. The result of years of skillful labor is 
valueless, save for its associations. But the carved 
oak paneling in the adjoining ball-room is to- 
day as fresh as when it was finished, and time 
has added only a richness to its coloring. 

The Bishop's Palace at 
Durham is stripped of its 
former luxury, and its 
walls are bare save for a 
few fragments of faded 
tapestry. But the mag- 
nificent staircase, with its 
great, carved balustrade, 
is unchanged and helps 
us to realize what the 
palace may have been 
when bishops lived there, 
and " held court like 
kings." The carving is 
not finely executed, and 
on close examination sug- 
gests rather the ax than 
the gouge. But the de- 
sign is bold and striking, 
and the effect admirable. 

When I was a little 
boy, I remember hearing 
one amateur wood-turner 
say to another : 

"The secret of all good 
workmanship is to have 
sharp tools." 

I was so young that I 
thought I had surprised a 
professional confidence, — 
one of the hidden mys- 
teries of the craft. But 
though an open secret, it 
is none the less impor- 
tant. To know when your 
tools are dull and to keep 
them sharp is your first 
duty. When you have 
accomplished that, half 
your task is done. 

You should have a soft oil-stone, a "slip" for 
the inside of the gouges and V tools, and a leather 
strop. Have the tools carefully ground, " long 
bevel," by an experienced man, and after that, 
unless some accident occurs, you yourself can 
keep them in order for a year or more. Never 
use a tool without first ascertaining that it is free 
from nicks. By and by, you will learn to make it 
literally as sharp as a razor. You will have much 
less sharpening to do if you are careful not to let 

one tool hit against another when taking them 
from the bench or replacing them ; for they are 
so highly tempered that they will be chipped by 
the slightest knock. 

The necessary tools are chisels, gouges (see p. 
47), and parting-tools; and they are made in such 
forms and sizes as may be required by the value 


or nature of the work undertaken. ' ' Addis " tools 
are the best, and are sold by most large dealers. 
By all means avoid " sets " of tools put up in boxes 
of six and twelve, and labeled " For Amateur 

The cost of the tools you will need, together 
with the oil-stones and a mallet (which should be 
shaped like a potato-masher), is little more than 
four dollars. 

In so short an article as this must be, only a few 




hints can be given. In beginning, select a large 
and bold design. Let us suppose that you are 
about to carve a chest. Take some simple design 
and enlarge it so that it will cover the whole of an 
end panel. You will thus have room enough to 
work freely, and 
there will be less 
danger of breaking 
the wood. Besides 
these advantages, 
you are likely to ob- 
tain a more effect- 
ive result. In the 
choice of hisdesign, 
the beginner should 
freely avail himself 
of the best things 
he can find, as orig- 
inal designing re- 
quires much experi- 
ence and practice. 

When carving is 
to be on furniture, 
or used simply as a 
decorative feature, 
avoid realistic and 
choose conventional forms. A natural spray of 
wild roses on a bureau drawer, or a fragment of a 
blossoming apple-bough over a mirror, is as much 
out of place as it would be if carved on the facade 
of a building. The smallest piece of furniture 
should be in accordance with architectural prin- 
ciples, and the decoration should harmonize with 
the whole design, and not throw it into confusion. 

If you carVe a molding, your object is not only 
to beautify that particular molding, but to em- 
phasize the line which the molding makes. If a 
beading be carved on a corner, it helps to soften 
the sharpness of the angles. A pilaster may be 
carved and adorned without interfering with its 
office of a support. But can a twisted bunch of 
ferns support a heavy burden, and should it be 
made to seem to do so ? If a conventional, vine- 
like pattern run around a panel, it may form a 
beautiful border, and seem to frame the carving in 
the center; but a bunch of plants, growing from 
nowhere and spreading over the panel, will always 
give an unbalanced and unpleasant effect. In the 
same way a panel of flying swallows, covering the 
back of a settle, is misplaced. We don't wish to 
lean back against flying birds. On a chimney- 
piece they would seem well placed. 

If, therefore, you wish to make a piece of furni- 
ture, see that its design is fitting and agreeable. 
Then your carving will add to it, and appear to 
good advantage. In the numberless variety of 
publications on the subject of furniture and deco- 

ration, there will be no difficulty in finding useful 

For carving, it sometimes will be easier to draw 
your design on paper and paste it on the wood, 
than to draw on the wood itself. If the pattern is 
to be in relief, do not cut too close to the design 
in taking out the background, but allow yourself 
a little margin, and trim off the edges after you 
have reached the necessary depth. As a rule, 
beginners cut too deeply, seeming to think that 
the higher the relief the better will be the carving. 
Go over the whole piece once and take out a 
moderate depth. Then, if need be, go over it a 
second or third time. In taking out the back- 
ground you will find the chisel, not the gouge, the 
best tool for cutting straight down. When you 
have removed most of the wood, the gouge will 
complete the work by trimming off the edges. 
Always select one that just fits the required curves. 
Thus you will work faster, and avoid breaking the 
wood. When the background is taken out, roughly 
model the design, going over the whole, so as to 
get the general effect. Then see whether the work 
promises to look as you wish, remembering that 
unless it is well modeled as a whole, no amount of 
" finishing" will make it satisfactory. It will be a 
help to set up your work from time to time, and to 
look at it from a distance. In finishing, turn the 
piece (or the bench it is on) as you work, so the 
light shall strike first on one side and then on 
the other, that no ragged edges or splinters may 
escape your notice. 

No great exer- 
tion, and no great 
amount of strength, 
are necessary ; for 
if the tools are 
sharp they will cut 
easily, and if you 
take off thin shav- 
ings the work will 
go on smoothly and 
rapidly. A long 
clean cut, running 
in the direction 
of the main line, 
should be used for 
drapery, acanthus 
leaves, and a hun- 
dred Other such carved panel -hawthorn. 
things. This is (by a student of the Cincinnati 
made, not by cut- art-school.) 
ting in deeply at once, but by taking off a little at 
a time, and by often repeating the cut. 

Strength not being needed, women have had no 
little success in wood-carving, having done much 
work that will bear the test of severe criticism. 




Some of my own pupils, in spite of their small 
hands, have made me proud of their beautiful pro- 
ductions. As an example of woman's work and 
of a good reproduction in wood, a copy of a por- 
trait carved by Miss Eggleston, after a relief by 
Mr. St. Gaudens, is given below. 

For example, the drapery on a figure may be carved 
with all the tool-cuts running with the various folds, 
so that the figure will seem almost to move under- 
neath the drapery, but if the drapery were filed or 
sandpapered smooth it would look as solid as a 
piece of pig-iron. 


Wood-carving has remained the most backward 
and neglected of the arts, because it was left so long 
in the hands of unthinking men, who were content 
to do the same things generation after generation, 
continually lessening the number of designs used, 
and losing the spirit in those carved, till their work 
became lifeless. Even the execution grew void of 
all individuality. One man's carving was exactly 
like another's. All Italian work looks alike. All 
German work looks alike. Much Italian carving 
is, indeed, exquisite in finish, but it too often re- 
minds one of the sugar and paper decorations on 
wedding-cake. The acanthus leaf has done duty 
on everything. Then, to conceal poor workman- 
ship, files and sandpaper have scoured it down 
till the carving appears as hard and stiff as if cast 
in iron. All wood-carving should be cut out clean, 
leaving the tool-marks. In this way you get variety 
of surface, and your work will look fresh and free. 

Wood-carving was once a great art, and men of 
genius and imagination devoted their lives to it. 
Their thoughts were beautiful, their labor was 
conscientious, and the freshness and charm of 
their work are to-day as wonderful as ever. If we 
are to have such work again, we, too, must have 
ideas and give our best skill to our work. 

At the very outset, put into your work as much 
thought as possible. Then, as you increase in 
skill, your ideas will grow in value. Avoid deco- 
ration that looks as if it were meant simply to fill 
so much space, and strive to have all ornament 
harmonize in idea with the thing it is intended to 
beautify. For instance, a panel in a sideboard 
would be appropriately decorated if surrounded by 
a simple border of conventional holly, the center 
space being occupied by a boar's head on a plat- 
ter. Do you think a jar of sunflowers or a cherub's 
head would seem as fitting? 



I remember a cabinet for birds' eggs, made 
by an amateur. The front was of glass, and the 
pilasters and side panels were beautifully carved. 
The lowest panels were decorated with wading 
birds — a pelican on one, and a crane on the 
other — for these birds would naturally be low 
down. Above came two panels containing a jay 
and a hawk; and last, a skylark and a swallow 
at the top. 

I hear you saying, " Such designs are suited 
only to those well skilled in the art." Very true, 
but the principle applies to the simplest carving. 
Variety will add interest to your work. Perfect 

ferent, and the beauty of the designs well repays 
study. By securing variety in design, your work 
will never become tiresome while you are doing- 
it, or after it is clone. 

When we have learned the rudiments of the art 
and begin to have more complex ideas, we shall 
wish to carve figures. Here, really, we leave sim- 
ple carving behind, and advance into the field of 
sculpture ; for sculpture in wood is as truly sculpt- 
ure as if its material were marble or bronze. 

We must now take up modeling in clay, and 
henceforth our carving will be good exactly so far 
as our modeling is good. Carving can not excel its 


harmony can be preserved in a piece, though no 
two parts are carved alike. There is a splendid 
example of this in Melrose Abbey, — a long row 
of tiles carved in stone, which, at first glance, 
seem to be alike, the amounts of light and shade 
being equal. In fact, however, every tile is dif- 

clay model any more than the marble statue can ex- 
cel its clay model. Hence the processes which lead 
to success are the same for one material as for the 
other. The work is modeled in the clay, a plaster 
cast is made, and then a close copy of it may be 
cut in marble or wood, or cast in bronze. Of clay 

4 6 



modeling I shall say only this: When you have 
grasped an idea, even if a conventional one, go to 
nature for your help in working it out. Suppose 
you are doing a horse's head. Do not rely on casts 
and pictures, but make studies in the stable, and 
see how quickly you will learn. You can not hope 


for success in figures or draperies without models to 
work from. Every material makes a different fold, 
and though you may not exactly copy any fold, 
you will need to study from the real object. 

One word in regard to high and low relief. It 
is commonly thought that there is something 
intrinsically more artistic in low than in high 
relief, because the low relief requires a more deli- 
cate and subtle treatment ; and that the variations 
are so slight, and the whole thing so nearly flat, 
that a little has to count for much. But, in reality, 
one work of art is just as artistic as another, if it 
be as well done, and the question of high or low 
relief should be settled by the place the completed 
carving is to occupy. When it is to be looked at 
from a distance with the light coming from all 
sides, as on the gable of a house, high relief is 
proper ; but for interior work, low relief gives the 
better effect. The indoor light being generally a 
side light, in low relief one part of the work does 

not project and throw the rest into shadow. 
When the work is deeply recessed, high relief is 

An illustration of low-relief carving is given in 
the engraving, one of four panels from a series 
which I made for Mr. H. G. Marquand's "Snug- 
gery," in his Newport 
house. These pieces 
average sixteen inches 
by eighteen inches, with 
the highest relief but a 
quarter of an inch. 

You can learn almost 
as much from studying 
good pieces of wood- 
carving as from a 
teacher ; for, if the 
carving was properly 
done, you can tell just 
what tools were used to 
produce every effect. 
But, as good work is 
very rare, and as you 
are surrounded by bad 
examples, you must be 
careful not to be led 
astray. A great part 
of the wood-carving in 
the market is done by 
machinery, and only 
touched up by hand, 
though often described 
as hand-carving. Then, 
too, so much of the rest 
is spoiled by sandpaper 
and files that you can 
get no instruction from 
it. However, you can learn much by examining 
good stone-carving. This branch of carving is 
further advanced than work in wood, and, in 
spite of the fact that the materials are so different, 
the one will serve as an example for the other. In 
a good piece of stone-carving all the tool-marks 
are left, and you will notice how they run ; and 
how, by allowing the outside edge of the design to 
disappear here and there in the background, an 
effect is obtained almost as soft as if the design 
were modeled in clay. On the newer houses in 
New York city there are many good examples. 

The best woods for carving are oak, cherry, and 
mahogany. Oak is rather hard, but it is so strong 
that it will not break unless you get a "stringy" 
piece. Cherry is quite strong and not so hard ; 
and if it be not daubed with stain, but simply left 
to itself, it will soon become beautiful in color. 
Always get the reddest piece you can. If you can 
obtain a good piece of well-seasoned mahogany, 



you will find it a delightful wood to use for large 
work, though it will not prove strong enough for a 
fine pattern. Beginners are often discouraged 
because they start with poor wood. I advise you 
to take especial care and pains in this particular, 
and be sure you have a piece with straight grain, 
free from knots and imperfections. Try the wood 
before you begin, for it is almost time thrown away 
to carve a " curly" or cross-grained piece. 

To finish, with a brush or rag put on raw lin- 
seed oil. When it has soaked well into the wood, 
wipe the work clean with a woolen cloth, and 
apply a coat of thin shellac. Next day, take one 
of those little scrubbing-brushes used for the 
hands, and rub the work hard. This rubbing will 
remove the unpleasant shine, without taking off 
the shellac which protects the carving from dust. 

My friend, the late John L. Hayes, of Cambridge, 
was one of the busiest lawyers in Boston, yet by his 
own handiwork he made his house a marvel to all 
who see it. Working sometimes but fifteen min- 
utes a day, he accomplished an almost incredible 
amount and variety of work. This is the more 
surprising because he began wood-carving in mid- 
dle life, without any previous artistic training. 
The cabinet for birds' eggs, mentioned before, is 
his work. Another example is a circular mirror- 

frame, composed of a wreath of the flowers men- 
tioned by Ophelia. Winding around throughout 
the circle of flowers, and ending at the bottom 

^^^- ""^JBF IIlliiii'' l " d -" 


in a knot, is a flowing ribbon, on which is carved 
the quotation: "There 's rosemary, that 's for 
remembrance, pray you, love, remember ; and 
there is pansies, that 's for thoughts." 

If our young wood-carvers find a few difficulties 
removed by the brief hints I have offered them, I 
have accomplished all I expected. 


By Grace Winthrop. 

The sunflowers in the garden 
Are bending limp and low. 
The cornstalks, brown and withered, 
Stand rustling in a row. 
We were so fine," they murmur, 
: A little while ago ! " 

The sky is gray and gloomy 
Without the sunshine's glow. 
There is no smiling anywhere 
Unless — Oh, gladsome show ! 
Twelve plump and golden pumpkins 
All beaming in a row ! 

They say, "Why so despairing? 
We 're always here, you know, 
At this unpleasant season 
Expressly sent to show 
The need of glad Thanksgiving, 
In spite of frost and snow." 


By Octave Thanet. 

F the kitchen-door stand 
open — and the door of 
an Arkansas kitchen is 
likely to stand open on a 
late February day — you 
can look from the kettles 
of the big stove to the 
bend of the Black River, 
to the steep bank where 
red willow twigs top the 
velvet down which will 
be grass, and across the 
gray waters to willows 
and sycamores and cane- 
brakes and a few cabins 
in the clearings. Should 
you step to the door, you 
can see the plantation- 
store and mill, and 
a score of gambrel- 
Toofed white houses. In the fields, the whitish- 
brown cotton-stalks lie on the dun-colored earth. 
The birds are singing in the cypress forest, and a 
red-bird nutters his gorgeous wings on a stray 
stalk that has escaped the cutter. 

Aunt Callie, one day in February, saw the 
fields and the bird, and also a little girl whose 
flannel cape was the color of the bird's wing, 
and whose thick hair had a gleam of the same 

" Humph," said Aunt Callie, " reckon by her 
favor, dat ar's Haskett's gell comin' by." 

" Haskett's gell," otherwise Mizzie Haskett, came 
awkwardly and shyly down the walk, and balanced 
herself on the kitchen steps. She wore her holiday 
attire, a blue-and-white cotton frock, red flannel 
cape, and a large bonnet (evidently made for a 
much older head) decked with red roses. Her hair 
was tied with a bright new green ribbon ; and 
round a soft and snowy little neck was a large 
white frill in which glittered an imitation-gold pin. 
Certainly, her pretty skin did not need it, but she 
was powdered (or, to be accurate, floured) pro- 
fusely; this last Southern touch of art being added 
injudiciously, after the putting on of the red cape. 
She was, moreover, consumed with embarrass- 
ment, which sent a flood of blushes through the 
flour layer, over her skin, from the roots of her 
hair to the nape of her neck. 

"Ye seekin' any pusson, Sissy?" said Aunt 

Callie frigidly. She had cooked for " the quality " 
twenty years, and she knew her own dignity. 

" I be'n seekin' Miss Dora, please," the little 
girl answered meekly, in a very sweet voice. 

Miss Caroll, overhearing both question and an- 
swer, hastened to invite the child to come in, 
which she did after a long interval of scraping her 
shoes outside. 

Once in the kitchen, seated, and her feet twisted 
behind the rungs of a kitchen chair, Mizzie gasped 
twice, then said, " Paw sent me. It dropped 

" What do you mean? " said Miss Caroll. 

"It was sorter sad lookin'," continued Mizzie, 
on the verge of tears. " Paw made out to eat it, 
but I knowed 'twas n't right." 

" Eat what? I really don't understand." 

" The brown bread, ma'am," sobbed Mizzie, big 
tears rolling down her cheeks, but persistently 
gasping her way through her sentences. " I put 
it in the steamer, like — you-all — tole me; but 
it — dropped through an' spread out. Didn't 
raise up high like you-all's." 

"You unfortunate child," said Dora, "do you 
mean that you poured your brown bread into the 
steamer — without any tin ? " 

This, it appeared, was precisely what Mizzie had 

" 'Cause Mis' Caroll did n't say nuthin' 'cept 
' Put it into the steamer.' " 

" Paw an' me made it together," said she, tak- 
ing out a square of cotton to wipe her eyes; " an' 
when it come out so sad an' curis lookin' he said 
for me to come here to-day, 'cause you-all wud 
be makin' of yo' bread, an' mabbe wud n't mind 
me lookin' on. Tole me to shore wipe my feet 
dry. Paw 'd hate terrible for me ter pester ye 

Aunt Callie visibly softened under this humility. 
" Dar, sot still an' watch me, den," said she. 

" I '11 tell you," said Dora, " I taught Aunt 
Callie our New England bread." 

She could not have asked a more attentive 
scholar, Mizzie watching every motion of the great 
wooden spoon with the eyes of a hawk, and her 
lips moving at intervals as do those of a child who 
inaudibly repeats a lesson to himself. 

Presently, the brown batter being safely in the 
tin mold, and the mold in the steamer, the small 
maid asked : 



" Please, ma'am, cud we-all buy a tin trick like 
that at the store ? " 

Being informed that she could, she sighed with 
relief, extricated her feet from the chair, and 
"made her manners." 

" I 'm much obliged to you-all, ma'am, an' I 
wish ye well." 

Hereupon she would have gone had not Dora 
detained her to slip a slice of cake and some apples 
into her hand. 

They saw her stop, a little distance from the 

sen' 'crter school mos' days 'cept washin' day. He 
guv 'er dat pin, but mos' times she lends it ter Sal' 
Jane. Sal' Jane 's all fur havin' 'er time an' 'er 
pleasure; but Mizpah, she 's studdy." 

Certainly she looked steady, too steady for her 
years, as she picked her way through the mud. 
She had stopped at the store, and the "tin trick" 
glittered under the crook of her elbow. Passing 
through the " settlement," she went over the brow 
of the tiny hill, down into the cypress brake. She 
hastened her pace, tripping along the dim forest 



house, and carefully wrap the cake in a piece of 

" She '11 never tech a bite o' dat ar," said Aunt 
Callie, — "jes' tote it home to de young uns. She 
do dem chil'en good as a mudder. Dey ain't got 
any mudder, ye un'erstan'. She keep de 'ouse 
alone ebber sence her maw died. Dar's.her 
paw; and Sal' Jane, dat 's goin' on ten; and de 
baby, dat 's two ; an' her, dat 's mabbe fo'teen. De 
cookin' an' scrubbin' an' makin' de cloze, she an' 
her paw, dey do it all. When he makin' a crop, 
den she do it all. But in winter he makes out to 
VOL. XVI.— 4. 

ways. Beautiful ways they are in February, with 
the white bark shining like silver, and the velvet 
moss which coats the north side of the cypresses and 
sycamores, and the glitter of red berries on the 
blue-black twigs of the hackberry-trees, and the 
ferns waving in the damp places, and the little 
"bluets" which deck the ground, first of all the 
brave company of spring flowers; but none of 
these did brisk little Mizzie see, because she was 
too busy planning for the two younger children 
and for " Paw." 

" We cud make out right well, ef 't wan't fur that 




thar cotton," she said to herself. " Well, I wud n't 
keer 'bout losin' the cotton, either, eft was n't fur 
such a sight er bad feelin's. I jes' take the all- 
overs* every time I see paw getherin' his gun ter 
go out. An' it used ter be so nice ! " 

Mizzie sighed heavily. By this time, she had 
come out upon a clearing and cotton-fields. On 
the edge of the cotton-fields stood a bright blue 
house. Evidently it was a new house ; not only was 
its color a surprise to the eye accustomed to the 
universal whitewash of plantation taste, but its snug 
architecture and straight chimneys proclaimed its 
recent building. A little girl sat on the porch 
beside a lank Arkansas hound. The hound rushed 
across the fields with joyful yelps. Mizzie hushed 
him as best she could : 

" Down Jeru ! Down charge ! You '11 fotch him 
out, shore." 

The little girl had followed the dog. She was 
about Mizzie's age, and her black curls streamed 
out behind her as she ran. 

" My, how long you was ! " she exclaimed. " Did 
she tell ye ? " 

Mizzie nodded. 

"Yes. You be thar, this aft'noon," replied she, 
solemnly, and she added, " I reckon I 'd bes' fotch 
'long the baby. Sal' Jane has had 'im all the morn- 
in'. You must n't ax too much er them little 

"All right. I '11 fotch 'long my doll." 

The little girl looked about her with a hurried 
and stealthy air, then pushed her pretty face 
through the fence rails to kiss Mizzie, saying : 

" Yo' right good ter fix it fer me so nice ! An' 
I do love you better 'n any gell in this worl' " 

" Oh, Doshy ! " cried Mizzie, " I see him comin'. 
Oh, fly!" 

Instantly she herself darted across the road and 
plunged into the brake. Doshy ran swiftly toward 
the house. A voice commanded her to stop ; she 
had been seen. She turned and went back to her 
father. He was a short, dark man, who snapped 
an ox-goad against his boot-legs in an unpleasant 

" Ain't that gell Dock Haskett's ? " he inquired. 
" Warn't that her, here, yisterday, too?" 

"Yes, sir," said Doshy. 

" Did n't I tole ye I did n't want ye ter have no 
more talk with Haskett's folks ? " 

Then Doshy plucked up heart to answer. " Paw, 
I cayn't help it. She 's so good. An' I like her 
better 'n any little gell in school." 

" Good?" repeated the father with strong deris- 
ion. "Good! Ain't she a Haskett? Ain't she 
got a red head like his'n? Aw, them red heads 
kin talk an' git 'roun' decent folks, but they '11 do 
ye a meanness whenever ye trust 'em. Look at 


me! Kin I walk right yit? Confound him, I'll 
tote that ar bullet er his'n 'roun', long 's I live ! 
An' my gell a-wantin' ter run with his gell ! I 
ain't got patience ter enjure hit. Go 'long ! " 

The child made no answer, but, stifling a sob, 
flew into the house. 

Sullenly the father limped about his work. He 
was not at all a harsh father, and that unusual look 
of fright and hurt which his girl had worn, smote 
his heart. 

" Now I made the little trick feel bad. Blame 
it all ! " he muttered, while he saddled his horse ; 
and he felt all the more bitter toward Haskett, the 
cause of his ill-temper. 

Everybody on the plantation knew that there 
was open war, a strong and bitter feud, between 
Luther Morrow and Dock Haskett. Yet, not six 
months before, they had been warm friends. The 
quarrel began over a trifle — a dispute as to which 
of two hunters was the better shot. There was a 
match which decided nothing, and a hog-hunt in 
which each shot the same number of wild hogs, 
and both claimed the last boar. The two men's 
tempers waxed warmer, and, by consequence, their 
friendship cooled, and foolish friends made the 
matter worse. And, finally, Jerusalem Jones, Lu- 
ther's pet hound, must needs choose this season of 
wrath to steal a ham from the Haskett gallery. 
Dock Haskett, unhappily, snatched up his gun 
and shot at the beast. He missed Jerusalem 
Jones, but he hit Jerusalem's master, who was on 
his way to the Hasketts', bent on conciliation, 
owing to his wife's entreaties. (He even had it in 
mind to tell Dock that he was in no hurry for the 
payment of a certain note which would fall due in 
February. In their friendly days, Luther had lent 
Dock money.) Enraged at such a reception, Luther 
brought his own gun to his shoulder, and there 
was a very pretty fusillade before Mizzie and the 
neighbors could reach the place from the cotton- 
fields. Dock had a shot in the shoulder, and 
Luther was on the ground with that shot in the 
leg, which was not yet healed. 

To-day, for the first time, Luther was able to 
ride to the store. He went on no pacific mission. 
Dock was saving his last bales of cotton for the 
higher spring-prices. They were at the gin, near 
the store. Luther's business was to have them 
attached for his debt. The very first person whom 
he met, after he had concluded this business, was 
a tall man, lean and awkward, with a kindly 
freckled face and red hair — in short, Dock 

He had heard about the cotton. He rode straight 
up to Luther. "This yere ain't no place fer 
talkin'," said he. "If ye reckon I done ye any 
wrong, I am ready ter have it out with ye any 



time an' place ye like ; but I promised my gell 
ter fotch her some flour, and I got ter git it back 
ter her fust." 

Before the two men separated, they had agreed 
to meet " an' talk 'bout things " that afternoon, at a 
lonely spot in the cypress brake, midway between 
their houses. 

Then they rode home, carrying no very good 
appetite to their dinners. 

Dock found the new brown-bread over the fire 
when he entered the room at home which was the 
Hasketts' kitchen, dining-room, and bed-chamber 
all in one. 

The baby toddled to meet him, babbling an in- 
articulate welcome which Mizzie interpreted at 
length — the baby was sixteen months old and 
more fluent than intelligible of speech. 

An apple and a piece of cake had been saved 
for the father. 

" Ye-all had some?" said he. Sal' Jane assured 
him they had, " all 'cept Mizzie, an' she fotched 

" Mizzie an' me '11 go shares." said Dock. " Ye 
are allers good ter the little tricks. Reckon I kin 
trust 'em with ye." 

He sighed in a curious way, Mizzie thought, as 
he spoke, and as he kissed her. While she was 
laying the table for dinner, he helped her, as usual, 
but more than once he caught himself standing 
still, dish in hand, staring around the room. To 
a mere stranger, it might have seemed bare and 
comfortless. The bricks on the hearth and in the 
great black throat of the fire-piace were uneven 
and broken. It was a meager array of tin and delft 
that was ranged on the shelf above. The walls were 
un plastered, and their sole ornaments were two col- 
ored cards, — one, presented with a box of soap, rep- 
resenting a very chubby infant washing himself; 
the other, the gift of a stray insurance agent, a red 
and black sketch of a burning house. The floor 
was in waves, and the only piece of carpet was be- 
fore the bed. Dock himself had chopped the rude 
bedstead out of white-oak timbers, and Mizzie had 
stuffed the pillows and the mattress with cotton. 
The great cracks in the walls where the clapboards 
were warped or broken had been plastered with 
mud. There were barely two panes of glass in the 
single window of the room. But Dock looked fondly 
at the red cushions covering the broken seats of 
the cane-bottomed chairs, at the figured brown oil- 
cloth on the table and the bright tin spoons which 
shone in the blue glass jug bought by Mizzie's 
cotton-money, and the lamp filled with real coal- 
oil, and it seemed to him a truly luxurious and 
beautiful apartment, only he used no such fine 

" Don't it look good ! " thought Dock sorrowfully. 

" Ye feelin' puny* to-day, Paw?" said Mizzie, 
with an anxious look. 

" Naw, honey, 1 war jes' sludyin'." In a min- 
ute he added, in a serious tone, "Mizzie, do ye 
set 's much store by Doshy Morrow now'days ez 
ye use ter ? " 

Mizzie came up closer to him and leaned her 
head against his arm, while she answered, "Yes, 
Paw. She ain't hurted you, ye know." She 
twisted the cloth of his sleeve, and went on, 
"Paw, wud ye — wud ye mind my learnin' Doshy 
to make this 'ere bread ? " 

" In co'se not, honey. I ain't no ill-will ter the 
little trick, nur ter her maw needier. She war pow- 
erful kind ter us-all, onct." He muttered under 
his breath, " Maybe she 'd be kind ag'in, if " 

Instead of completing the sentence, he kissed 
the anxious little face. 

Mizzie thought that he was even kinder than 
usual that day. After their simple dinner, she 
saw him chopping wood. He chopped a great pile, 
enough to last a long while, in the mild weather 
of February and March. Then he brought the 
sack of meal into the gallery from the shed. 
"Handier fur ye," he muttered; and he cut up 
the half-a-pig which hung in the shed, so that it 
was ready for cooking. 

By this time, the hour was near three by the 
wheezy old clock on the shelf. Dock returned 
to the house. 

Sal' Jane was poking the fire, at that moment, 
with an important air which was explained by her 
first speech. 

"Mizzie's gone with the baby, an' I 'm to keep 
the water b'ilin', so the bread won't spile." 

" That 's right, honey," said her father. He 
kissed her and went out again. 

She thought nothing of his having his gun over 
his shoulder. 

About the same time, Luther Morrow, also car- 
rying a gun, was shutting his gate. He looked 
grimly and sadly at the cotton-fields and the house, 
but he forced a smile when his wife nodded to him 
from the door-way ; and after he had walked a 
little distance he turned to wave his hand. 

"Mendoshy 's alluz b'en a good wife ter me," 
he thought; " mabbe she 'd like fer ter 'member 
that 'ar, ef anythin' happens." 

The place of meeting was marked by a blasted 
cypress growing on the edge of a ravine or "slash." 
A tangle of thorn-trees, papaws and trumpet-vines 
made a rude hedge above the bank on the road- 
side. Luther's first glance showed him Dock's 
tall figure in blue jeans, outlined against the chalk- 
white of the cypress. At the same moment, Dock 



perceived his enemy, and both men advanced; 
frowning. Half-way, they stopped as abruptly as 
if shot, with a curious, embarrassed, shamefaced 
look. Yet that which had stopped them was but 
a child's laugh. Immediately it was answered by 
another childish laugh. 

" They 're down thar in the slash, I reckon," 
said Dock. " Say, war n't that yo' gell's voice?" 

" Yes ; war n't t' other un your'n ? " said Luther. 
He was seized with an absurd and incongruous 

" Cayn't we get nearer to see? " said he. 

Dock jerked his thumb over his shoulder, say- 
ing, "Thar 's a opener place a piece back." 

"All right," said Luther. 

Neither man caring to walk ahead of the other, 
the two marched peaceably side by side. 

Just so, — the abrupt remembering it and the 
sting of it made Dock wince, — just so they had 
walked over that very road a year before ; then they 
carried a coffin between them, and the coffin was 
that of Dock's wife. She was buried out in the 
woods, as she had wished. The spot was not 
twenty rods away. Luther had been Dock's good 
friend and neighbor then, and it was Mrs. Morrow 
who brought the bunch of holly and red berries 
that was lying on the coffin. "And how comes 
it we b'en walkin' yere to-day, seekin' each other's 
blood?" thought Dock. 

Luther's reflections were of another nature. 

"Thar! if that ar bad little trick are runnin' 
with Haskett's gell agin, ayfter my tellin' her — I 
jes' will guv 'er the bud* — leastways, I '11 skeer 
'er up, a-promisin' it ter her ! " 

Dock soon halted, where the underbrush was 
less dense. 

Each of the men eyed the other sharply before 
getting on his hands and knees to crawl through. 
Luther, half-way, met with a mishap, catching on 
a thorn-tree. A smothered exclamation from him 
attracted Dock's notice. 

" My foot got cotched in the elbow-brush," he 
groaned, " and that ar blamed thorn-tree 's got 
hold er my breeches: I cayn't reach it with my 
han's, nur I cayn't kick it 'way with my foot ! Say, 
kin ye cut the ornery branch off? " 

"Waal, ye be helt fas', ain't ye?" Dock an- 
swered, hastening to his aid, without a sign of 
levity. He solemnly cut away the limb of the 

" Thank 'e," said Luther, in a surly voice. 

They both crawled to the edge. In some way, 
they both felt a disposition to postpone their 
quarrel. They looked over the hedge of " elbow- 
brush " and thorn-tree and leafless trumpet-vine. 
Down below, in the hollow, a fire had been built 
against a log. Three sticks, crossed above, sup- 

ported a kettle on which rested a covered tin 
vessel. A savory steam arose from this, crisp- 
ing in the air, delicious to the nostrils and beauti- 
ful to the eye. Close to the fire, Mizzie and Doshy 
sat together. The baby sat on a blanket beside 
Mizzie, hilariously playing with Doshy's new doll. 
On the outskirts of the group, the dog, Jerusalem 
Jones, was chasing a pig. 

" Whut they monkeyin' with, onyhow ? " said 

" Hush ! Hark to 'em ! " said Dock. 

Doshy was explaining something to Mizzie: 
" An' he loves brown-bread a tumble sight. He 
eat some ter Mis' Caroll's, an' he b'en talkin' 'bout 
it ever sence. An' I '11 have this yere fur supper, 
an' he '11 eat it, an' he 'II say, ' Who made it ? ' an' 
I '11 say, 'Me'; an' I '11 say yon learned me, an' 
then he '11 'low yo' 're a real nice little girl." 

" I 'm 'fraid he won't," said Mizzie ; "my paw 
don' mind a bit my likin' you ; but yo' paw 'd like 
fur ter set the doeg on me." 

" Naw, be wud n't neether," cried Doshy. " He 
jes' lets on ter be cross ; he 's real good, inside. 
Don' ye mind how he gethered them pecans fur 
we-all afore they had the trouble ? He 's real kind; 
he never whips none o' us. Jes' see he will — but he 

" Blame it all, the pesky little trick ! She b'en 
'cute nuff ter fin' that out," cried Luther, while 
Dock stifled a chuckle. 

" My paw 's good, too," said Mizzie. " He 
chopped a right smart er wood fur me to-day. I 
never have ter chop wood. " 

"Neither does Maw," said Doshy proudly. 
"My Paw always does hit, an' he done a heap 
to-day, too." 

The two fathers exchanged glances; without a 
word each read what the other's forebodings 
had been, by what he remembered of his own. 
And each felt, in a vague and dubious way, com- 
plimented by the other's dread of being killed. 

A loud scream from one of the little girls turned 
their eyes back to the fire. Jerusalem Jones had 
worked mischief. He thought it was an unpro- 
tected orphan of a pig that he was harassing; so, 
barking and jumping, he had chased the wretched 
little beast into the brake. But, in a second, he came 
back faster than he went, and pursued by three wild 
hogs. These wild hogs are hideous creatures, long, 
muscular, with great black heads, and tusks like 
scimitars curling upward out of their jaws. They 
would have ended Jerusalem Jones's ill-doing in 
short order, had they caught him. Jerusalem, 
howling with fright, bounded up to the girls, the 
wild hogs at his heels, uttering the strange, fierce 
sound which these beasts make when they rally to 
face the hunters. It is the note of danger. The 




life'//, .:■•/.'■ ' 


girls turned pale. They leaped to their feet. 
Mizzie snatched up the baby. With a single bound 
and a mighty swing of her strong little arms, she 
dropped the astonished infant in the midst of a 
thicket of thorn-trees. Then, snatching a brand 
from the fire, she stood at bay. 

" Fight 'em with the fire, Doshy ! " she said ; 
" don' let 'em git our bread ! " 

Doshy had bravely caught a stick, but seeing 
the baby safe, she had flown to the rescue of Jeru- 
salem Jones. The dog was rolling on the ground 
in desperate conflict with the smallest hog. In his 
agony, Jerusalem wrenched himself free and made a 
flying leap through the fire, thereby overturning the 
gypsy kettle and sending the brown-bread tin head- 
long at the hogs. Doshy uttered a piteous scream : 

" Oh, my bread ! my nice bread ! " 

Mizzie was on the other side nearer the brown- 
bread. Before the huge black noses could touch 
the tin, she kicked over the log. 

" Gether the bread an' run ! " she screamed. 

The two hogs turned on Mizzie. Doshy was 
running to her playmate's aid ; but she was too 
far away. Horrified, she saw one infuriated boar 
strike the burning stick out of the brave little 
hand. " Jeru ! Jeru ! " she cried in her despair, 
while she threw her stick at the hog. 

Let it be told to his credit, Jerusalem responded ; 

though he had run on .his own account, though he 
was bleeding in half a dozen places, the dog leaped 
back into the fray, drove his teeth through the big 
boar's ear, and hung there. The boar had caught 
Mizzie's skirt; he flung up his wicked head now. 
But meanwhile the other boar, with his teeth clash- 
ing, his eyes like red coals 

" Oh, Lord, Luther ! " gasped Dock, " cayn't ye 
git a sight at it? My pore little gell 's square in 
front o' me ! " 

He shut his eyes for one intolerable second ; the 
next, the ping of a bullet made him crash his way 
through the brush, and slip recklessly down the 
bank. As an apple falls when hit by a stone, the 
boar tumbled to the ground. Then Dock's bullet 
laid the other hog beside him. 

The sagacious Jerusalem had loosened his hold 
when he saw the gun-barrel. Now he capered 
over the body with yells of triumph. But he 
ceased his dance and looked in amazement at his 
master, who was actually hugging Haskett's girl. 

" Please, Mister Morrow," she said, " look a' the 
babv. I put 'im in, but I cayn't git 'im out." 

The baby, however, was already in its father's 
arms. Doshy was mourning over her brown- 

" Put it back in the steamer," commanded 
Mizzie, adding: "Oh, please, Mister Morrow, 't 



ain't Doshy's fault, bein' with me ; I coaxed her 
fur ter learn ter make the bread ! " 

"Honey," her father answered tenderly, "it's 
the bes' bread ever was baked ! — an' Haskett 'n' 
me '11 eat it together. Won't we, Dock ? " 

"We will so," said Dock, rubbing the tears 
from his eyes, "an' I guvin, now, 'bout the shoot- 
in'. / cud n't hev made that shot jest un'er the 
child's elbow! Why, ye got a han' o' iron " 

" An' / guv in 'bout that ar ornery, triflin', no- 
'count dog," answered Luther; " ye was right for 
ter shoot 'im, Dock. Ye kin kill him off, this 
minnit, ef yer wan' ter." 

" Naw, sir. Not ayfter his tacklin' that hoeg ez 

he did," cried Dock; " but ye know, Luther, 

I meant that shot, six months ago, fer him, not fer 
you ; an' I are turrible sorry I done hit " 

" Shet up!" said Luther impulsively. "I've 
done ez mean by you ez you 've done by me. 
Blamed if I know how it come we-uns was fisjhtin', 

onyhow. Say, let 's take the brown-bread ter my 
house an' eat it — an' tell Mendoshy." 

Thus it happened that the man who passed the 
Morrow house that evening had a most extraordi- 
nary tale to relate at the store. 

" I tell ye, they was all roun' the table, Dock 
Haskett an' his baby, an' his two gells, an' all the 
Morrowses. An' Luther he kissed Haskett's gell 
spang on the forehead, an' he war a-cuttin' her a 
hunk o' brown-bread. An' Dock he says, ' She 
did n't do no better nor yore gell ' ; an' then 
Luther he guvs his gell a buss, too, an' they all 
were a-laffin', an' Mis' Morrow she laffed till she 

Aunt Callie's comment was, " Waal, good 
cookin' 's never wasted, an' them gells ain't likely 
to fergit how to make brown-bread. I ain't sorry 
I l'arned 'er, though, ez a gineral thing, I 'ain't 
no 'pinion er folkses romancin' 'roun' my kitchen." 



JiDwe JdouoF>5 . lolling .Leaver, . 

» -i 1. 

T^ain a la. (ate, and ^Dogj. 

>i 1. 

Indian Surnrner , jerved warrrj Wit^ 
ejweet" Qernork^ . 
.Broking £3ijtj , wrapped in ^'^ce . 

Iarojly -iraffe, , preserved in Unity, 
©roanjop jDoordj), J)aucc de i B° ri Appetlt. 
(gratitude , poinij'h_ed Nx/ftt^ Qiftri . 

1 Jorttj A&^ch 7 p' ac ^5 ■ 

Xire^ide Irolicj. Hooaj and f^gkfj . 


-y, f^- 






iSTE-DmuriDjALToHV f 












3 OS T 





FROM a far-off part of our Republic lately came 
a queer complaint, — that a two-hours' visit from 
a revenue cutter was the only sign the people of | I 
Kodiak had seen in four years that there was such 
a thing as a United States Government. 

This bit of news, droll as it may seem at first, is, 
when linked with other facts, anything but amus- 
ing. It tells of national neglect and wrong — the 
story of American citizens, living in the most flour- 
ishing district of Alaska, deserted by the Govern- 
ment to which they yield their allegiance, and 
which, so far as outward evidences go, ignores 
their rights and welfare, if not, indeed, their very 

And yet I wonder how many American citizens, 
living in more favored parts of our dominion, en- 
joying the benefits of local rule in States and 
Territories, surrounded by the operations of Fed- 
eral power, and under the shadow of its protec- 
tion, — how many of us, when reading that story 
of injustice, gave a moment's thought to the 
condition of our countrymen in the North, and 
paused to compare that condition with our own? 
How many of us have ever seriously put the 
question to ourselves : What is the Government 
of the United States, and what is it doing for u: 

The young philosopher, pondering over the mean- 
ing of strange words, and quietly passing judgment on all subjects as 
he grows in years, soon learns to regard the Government as a thing of 
Power. From fragments of talk he gathers some idea about the vastness 
of its authority and the glory of its achievements. He knows, in a con- 




fused and dreamy way, that it exists ; but he does 
not see it, he does not feel it, he does not hear it. 
He thinks of it with patriotic awe, as he might 
think of something supernatural. To him it is 
a vague, mysterious Presence — an invisible, all- 
pervading, sleepless Majesty, presiding like some 
mighty Genius over the affairs and destiny of the 

Later on, when he begins to pore over the daily 
papers and read about what is happening in the 
world, some of the mystery disappears. He hears 
of a Congress, of a President, and of a Supreme 
Court, transacting business miles away in the City 
of Washington, and he learns to think of them 
whenever the Government is named. But as sum- 
mer days approach, he reads more news from 
Washington : the Justices have closed the Court 
and gone ; Congress has decamped ; and, last of 
all, the President has seized a fishing-rod and fled 
into the wilderness for rest. What has become of 
the Government ? Veiled, impenetrable sover- 
eignty, unseen and silent, it still exists, still goes 
onward with its work. 

Certainly, in the loftier sense of the term, the 
Government is invisible. Its mention may well 
inspire awe — it suggests sovereign grandeur and 
authority. Its majesty and power are the majesty 
and power of a nation — of the sixty millions of peo- 
ple who compose the Republic. The Government 
is the people, speaking and executing their own 
sovereign will. It is the Republic in action ! The 
power itself can not be seen ; the means, or agen- 
cies, through which it speaks and acts, are visible. 
Those agencies are human — there is nothing 
supernatural about them. 

The older boys and girls whom I address know 
all this. You know more, for you have studied 
the Constitution of the United States. You know 
the theory, the outline, the general plan and pur- 
poses of the Government, — in other words, you 
understand what it was designed to be. But a 
person might know the Constitution from begin- 
ning to end — he might be able to recite it back- 
ward — and yet be utterly in the dark as to what the 
Government actually is. A government may be 
one thing in theory, and quite a different thing 
in practice. According to the Constitution, the 
Government of the United States is a system, 
grand, protective, just ! According to some think- 
ers who have freely uttered their thoughts during 
the present year, it is a grim and ravenous Mon- 
ster, devouring the substance of the people and 
threatening them with ruin ! 

Nor is the reality hid only from the young. It 
is safe to say that to the average American (and 
the expression sweeps over many an aged head) 
the Government of the United States is scarcely 

more than a fancy, — his notions as to what it is 
doing, and as to how it does it, border often on 
the ludicrous. It was a boy who, when asked how 
Congress is divided, promptly answered, " Into 
three classes — civilized, half-civilized, and sav- 
age." But it was a man who, stating that he had 
seven sons and no daughters, and that, as he under- 
stood the law, a man who has seven sons and no 
daughters is entitled to a pension, gravely applied 
to the Government for his allowance ! 

It has often been remarked that the American 
people, as a rule, know more about ancient and 
foreign history than they do about their own. It 
is quite in keeping with this view that the man 
who knows the least about the Declaration of In- 
dependence should be the first on hand and make 
the loudest noise whenever the Fourth of July 
comes around. And it is not going far beyond the 
truth to say that the American who knows practi- 
cally nothing about the Constitution and laws of 
his country is the wildest in his praise of Ameri- 
can institutions and in his talk about the exalted 
rights of citizenship ! 

Passing by what he knows, or what he does not 
know, about the local governments of town and 
county and State (and he does not know too 
much!), what does the average American — the 
well-meaning, easy-going, every-day citizen — 
know about the management of national affairs? 
He knows that this is the province of the Federal 
Power — the Government of the United States. 
He knows that this power works under the forms 
of law and through the agency of men ; that these 
men are, by the Constitution, divided into three 
great classes, or departments — the Congress, the 
Judiciary, and the Executive ; that the Congress 
makes the laws, declaring what shall or shall not 
be done, which it is the function of the Judiciary 
to interpret, the office of the Executive to carry 
out, and the duty of every citizen to obey. But he 
does not read the laws which Congress makes; he 
does not look at the decisions which the Judiciary 
renders; and, not knowing precisely what the Ex- 
ecutive has been ordered by Congress to do, he 
can not know what that department is doing, or 
have any intelligent conception of his own rights 
and duties as a citizen under those laws. Yet, 
within a fortnight, he will exercise the highest 
right and perform (or, rather, pretend to perform) 
the highest duty of American citizenship — he will 
vote for a man to go to Congress and help four 
hundred other Congressmen to make more laws, 
and he will vote for a President to execute the 
laws those men shall make ! And, just here, to 
show how little he really knows about the Consti- 
tution itself, we may trip him on one of its very 
first and simplest provisions. He imagines that. 



as a citizen of Albany, for instance, in voting for a 
man to represent the people of that county in Con- 
gress he must name, as his choice, some man who 
also resides in that county ; whereas (my y.oung 
readers are able to inform him), if he and the 
other voters of the Albany district prefer to be 
represented by some man who lives in Buffalo, or 
anywhere else in the entire State of New York, 
they have a perfect right (so far as the mere ques- 
tion of that man's place of residence is concerned) 
to make that choice. He has doubtless read the 
Constitution, but he has by no means mastered it. 

In one way or another — chiefly through the 
public prints — he gets occasional notice of Gov- 
ernmental action. Every paper he picks up has 
something to say concerning some branch of the 
Government service, or some branch of Govern- 
ment work. He reads about a fight on the frontier 
between a troop of soldiers and a band of hostile 
Indians, and he naturally infers that we have an 
army ; but as to the size of that army, or where 
the rest of it is, and in what work engaged, he 
does not bother himself to inquire. In the same 
way, he hears of a sailing-vessel crashing into a 
" United State's man-of-war," or of a sham battle, 
or torpedo-practice, in which some sailors are killed 
and others wounded, and the idea flashes across his 
mind that we have also a navy ; but as to where 
the other ships of the navy are — whether floating 
on the top, or dismantled and at the bottom, of the 
sea — or as to what we would do in case an enemy 
should bombard our coast, he has no exact knowl- 
edge. From the quips and bantering comments 
of the press, the subject seems to be one for 
national ridicule and sport, and he drops it with a 
smile or jest. 

The carrier daily delivers to him his letters, — 
some from the remotest regions of the earth, — 
and he recognizes in this another agency of the 
Government. But the infinite details, the vast 
and almost perfect system by which the postal 
service is enabled to do its work so promptly and 
efficiently, are not considered. He receives his 
mail as he does many other things in life, — as a 
matter of course and of habit. 

He handles the specie, the " greenbacks," the 
gold and silver certificates, and the bonds bearing 
the impress of the United States, together with 
notes bearing the names of national banks, — 
things which might stir in his mind a multitude of 
fiscal thoughts. How does the Government get 
the bullion which it coins ? by what right does it 
issue greenbacks ? in what do they differ from the 
specie certificates ? and why, if the Government 
can make money out of paper, should it borrow 
money and issue bonds and pay interest on its 
debt ? and what is that debt, anyhow ? and what 

has the Government to do with national banks? 
And back of all these questions are others : What 
is the revenue of the Government ? How is it 
raised, and how and for what is it disbursed ? If 
any of these queries enter his head, he does not 
banish a wink of sleep in an effort to answer 
them ; — though perhaps the politicians have 
recently accosted him on the subject, and he has 
gleaned some facts in spite of their .conflicting 

At long intervals he meets the census-taker 
on his travels, and he understands that the Govern- 
ment has had its curiosity aroused and is counting 
the population of the Republic. But it would make 
his brain whirl to look at the massive volumes the 
Census Office turns out, and to read its statistics 
of trade and agriculture, and of nearly everything 
else that touches the social and business condition 
of the country. 

Stray items may reach him now and then from 
other points. He may hear of men of genius — 
men with long names and longer heads — engaged 
in a variety of odd tasks. He may hear of some 
brooding over craters and lava, musing over mo- 
raines, and philosophizing about the strange be- 
havior of brooks ; of others surveying the coast or 
studying the land; of some tracking the course of 
an earthquake — of others measuring the move- 
ments of tides ; of one locating the ores of the 
earth — of another mapping the shoals of the sea. 
He may hear of one assembling the scattered bones 
of a monster brute ; of another uncovering the 
buried ruins and the history of an ancient race. 
He may hear of one stocking the streams with fish ; 
of another investigating insects and arguing that 
wingless spiders can fly against the wind. He may 
hear of one stationed on a lofty peak, signaling an 
advancing storm ; of another sweeping the distant 
depths, following the flight of some runaway star 
as it tears headlong through space. 

But does he see the hand of Government in any 
of these things ? What are his reflections? The 
Constitution expressly refers to armies, to a navy, to 
a postal service, to coinage and matters of revenue, 
to a census, and to a number of other subjects which 
he may readily recognize, when he stumbles across 
them in his path, as proper for the Government to 
deal with. Well, the Constitution speaks also about 
promoting the progress of science and useful arts. 
Does he think, for an instant, that under this 
provision the Government is paying for scientific 
work? If so, then why should not everybody en- 
gaged in the pursuit of knowledge, as a pastime or 
as a vocation, have the right to be sustained by 
national wealth? Tell him that the Government 
has invaded science, art, and literature ; ask him 
to explain where it derives its authority to do so ; 



ask him to draw the line between the proper duties 
of Government and the rights of private enter- 
prise — ask him, in short, to mark the bounds of the 
system itself. What answer does he give ? 

These are only a few of a thousand and one top- 
ics that might arrest his attention, in his reading 
or his observations, and suggest the exercise of 
Federal power. To say that he comprehends it 
in all its immensity, in all its ramifications, in all its 
far-reaching effects, is to pay him a compliment at 
the expense of fact. To know the reality, to know 
how far it is actually working out the purposes for 
which it was established, and how far it has swerved 
from its true course, he must know more than 
Constitutional principles ; he must know the laws, 
the agencies created by those laws, what those 
agents are doing, and the methods which they em- 
ploy. His knowledge, at the best, is but a smat- 
tering; to him, after all, the Government is little 
else than a conjecture, a fancy — an airy, intan- 
gible, invisible theory. 

This is blunt speech. For there are tens of 
thousands of citizens who have very clear and correct 
notions about what the Government is, and about 
what it ought to be. The "average American " is, 
to be sure, an indefinite sort of person, and he is 
apt to think and know more about public affairs 
than he shows. But there is one class of Ameri- 
cans to which he does not belong — Americans 
who, unfortunately, do take what they call a " prac- 
tical view" of things. They know the Blue Book 
better than they know the Constitution ; they look 
upon the Government simply as a great collection 
of offices; they know the salary attached to every 
office ; and their highest and only ambition, as citi- 
zens, is to secure the best-paying offices for them- 
selves. The American with his "theory" and 
imperfect knowledge is so far ahead of this type of 
"enlightenment" as to put comparison out of all 

The American who glories in the majesty of the 
Republic, and who values his own freedom, can not 
afford to dream ; the duty he owes to the common- 
wealth, to society, and to himself, he can not, with 
honor or safety, ignore. The true grandeur of 
our Government depends upon the justice of its 

( To be continued, ) 

laws ; those laws depend upon the virtue, the 
patriotism, and the wisdom of the people. The 
fight for independence did not end with the Treaty 
of Peace; nor did the adoption of the Constitution 
settle forever all questions of civil liberty and gov- 
ernment. Dangers have appeared in the past; 
dangeis menace us to-day ; dangers will yet arise. 
They may come from the direction of the Govern- 
ment ; or they may come from society, as evils for 
the Government to meet. The political struggle 
now going on, which the people are expected to 
decide intelligently at the polls, is important, re- 
garded from the stand-point either of principle or 
of policy. For the rising generation, graver ques- 
tions and contests are in store. May they be bravely 
met and honorably determined by the ballot and 
the other weapons of peace and law ! 

The subject of government is a profound and 
momentous one, yet it is not wholly beyond the 
grasp of the young. It would be an error for par- 
ents or teachers to withhold it from you as a mat- 
ter reserved for older minds. You can not be too 
much impressed by a consciousness of its gravity ; 
you can not take too broad a view of national des- 
tiny and of your rights and duties as younger cit- 
izens ; you can not begin to study these things too 

You are not expected to plunge at once into the 
depths of " political science"; you need not vex 
your early wits over abstruse " economic" puzzles. 
With time and experience will come ability to 
handle disputed problems, and to follow the drift 
of national policy and power. At the start, the 
mask of mystery should be lifted off; the reality 
of government should stand before your thoughts. 
To this end, these serial sketches have been pre- 
pared. They will not acquaint you with all the de- 
tails of the system ; that is not their aim. They are 
designed to show you, at a glance, the Republic 
at its daily work: — to conduct you into the presence 
of the Government of the United States ; to intro- 
duce you to it, as to a stranger, and, with a few 
social remarks about the weather in order to put 
you at your ease, leave you to learn, from further 
intimacy, the disposition and the habits of your 



= ! J\e 





'T was a big, 
rambling old 
place, — the 
mill-house at 
Buctouche, but 
none too large for 
the miller's family. Per- 
haps the children themselves 
were large for their age. At all events, they seemed 
to be everywhere ; the house overflowed with them, 
yet there were always one or two about the mill, 
paddling in the mill-pond, or chasing the chickens 
about the yard. 

Miranda and Sarah grew up in the belief that 
chickens, like children, were born to original sin. 
Nothing else satisfactorily explained their tendency 
to get into the garden. 

" Sarah, run chase them chickens out o' the 
garden," called Mrs. McKenzie, as usual, one fine 
morning in the fall. Late though it was, there 
were still precious seeds to be garnered from the 
yellow vines, and so thought the chickens, too. 

Sarah was a very little tot, — the youngest. She 
started boldly down the garden-path, but stopped 
short on seeing the big rooster, chuckling in low 
tones, as busy as the rest among the seeds. 

" Their mother is with them," she called back 
in her little piping voice. 

" M'rindy, you run help her." Miranda obeyed. 

"It isn't their mother at all," she explained. 
" She does n't know their mother from their 

" I guess we '11 kill a young gobbler for 
Thanksgiving," mused the mother, looking into 
the barn-yard as the children " shooed " the greedy 
fowls through the gate. " A turkey and a green 
goose — you '11 like that, won't you, Dave?" 

One of the biggest of the big boys was leaning 
against a door-post — " Keeping the barn up," he 
called it. 

"Well, my appetite is very delicate," he an- 
swered, regretfully, and then burst into a great 
shout of laughter. However good his jokes might 
be, nobody enjoyed them so much as Dave himself. 
'" I can manage to pick a bone, though, Mother." 

W. Hitchcock. 

" I 'm hungry," said the listening Sarah, in a 
decided tone. 

" Mercy sakes, child, you 've but just left the 
breakfast-table ! " 

" It 's talking about Thanksgiving that makes 
her hungry," David explained. " I feel just that 
way too." 

In fact, it was the same at Buctouche all the 
year round. Something in the air made one ready 
to eat at any hour of the day or night. There 
was the salt air of the sea, and the sweet resinous 
smell of the pine-woods, and then all the lumber, 
heaped in fresh, clean profusion everywhere, in 
piles that towered above the lowly old mill and 
hid it from view. Perhaps that was the " hun- 
griest " smell of all. 

Fortunately there was always enough to eat in 
the McKenzie family ; but it was not turkey and 
green goose every day. Oh, no ; nor pumpkin- 
pie, and cranberries, and plum-pudding ! The 
little McKenzies lived in Canada, where English 
plum-pudding formed part of every festival, but 
you see they were American enough to have 
pumpkin-pie, too. 

Lucky little McKenzies ! 

Preparations for the day began soon after Mrs. 
McKenzie made her first allusion to green goose 
and the young gobbler. Before nightfall those 
fated birds were hanging by their heels, plump, 
snow-white after their plucking, inside the door of 
the ice-house. 

Miranda helped to make the pies. She was 
"handy," her mother said, — a care-taking, ear- 
nest child, very unlike the humorous David, his 
boisterous brothers Joe, Isaac, William, and Daniel, 
or even roly-poly Sarah, who showed an early 
fondness for adventure and a distaste for honest 

Miranda was her mother's "right-hand-man." 
She stoned the raisins, she stuffed the green goose 
(after her mother had prepared the appetizing 
mixture of bread-crumbs, sage, and onion), while 
Mrs. McKenzie prepared the gobbler; and when 
stuffed, Miranda's fowl certainly showed the more 
beautiful outlines. 




When Thanksgiving morning came, Miranda 
arose with a deep sense of responsibility. 

" The pudding must go in at ten," she repeated 
to herself. " The goose and the gobbler are to 
roast until they are done." 

Breakfast was no sooner over, than Miranda 
was teasing to hang the fowl forthwith. A curious 
way to roast fowls was this : to hang them from 
the mantel-piece like Christmas stockings, letting 
them turn and slowly brown before the crackling 

"Is n't it time now, Mother?" 

"No, child, not yet. Fetch me the butter,"re- 
plied Mrs. McKenzie, still busy over the pudding. 
The boys, idle that day, gathered around the fire, 
where the sight of their luxurious laziness irritated 
Miranda. Like a little Martha, she was cumbered 
with many cares, and she wished these to be un- 
derstood even if they were not shared by her unap- 
preciative family. 

"Come, Dave," she said, imitating the sharp, 
bustling tone of her mother, " you are too idle for 
anything. Fetch the butter for Mother, now ; 
I 'm busy." Dave opened his big blue eyes in 
slow surprise. 

" Hark to the little crowing hen ! Don't you be 
saucy, now. That's all I have to say to you." Then, 
so far from jumping to obey, the bad boy con- 
trived, while he tilted back his chair again, to 
thrust out one long leg, just as Miranda impatiently 
brushed by, tripping her up, but catching her as 
she fell with an affectation of great solicitude. 

" Now see the harm of being in such a hurry. 
Why can't you be more like me? I 'm never in a 
hurry." Dave winked at Isaac with one of his 
usual smiles. After this the boys felt it their duty 
to tease " M'rindy " all they could. She was, as 
Dave said, too "saucy." Something certainly 
was wrong with her to-day — the day that was to 
have been so happy. She felt angry with the 
boys, and was cross even to baby Sarah, who was 
playing contentedly in a corner with her kitten. 
The boys were mean and hateful to tease her so, — 
she, the only one who was useful; if it were not 
for her, those lazy boys would go hungry all day 
before they would do anything to help. Deter- 
mined to be an example of virtue, she fussed and 
fretted, worried her mother with questions and 
advice, as the good woman bustled about making 
the beds and "cleaning up," as she called it, be- 
fore Uncle Jacob, Aunt Betsey, and the five chil- 
dren arrived. A Thanksgiving service was to be 
held that afternoon, in the Presbyterian church, 
which would be attended by the whole McKenzie 
family, as well as by the country people from many 
miles around. 

"Oh, I'm sure it's time to hang the goose," 

sighed Miranda. " It won't be done in time. 
Mother. It 's bigger than the gobbler. Can't I 
hang it now ? " 

" I can't think what 's come over you ! " ex- 
claimed poor Mrs. McKenzie, out of patience. 
" You 're not helping, you 're a-hindering me. 
Now, please go and sit down, and stay there till I 
call you." 

Miranda walked off with a deep sense of injury. 
— After all she had done to help ! What ingrati- 
tude ! Nobody loved her, nobody realized how 
much they owed to her. If she should die now, 
they would find out. Then they would miss her, 
indeed ! She would go away somewhere, as her 
mother ordered, and then her mother would see 
soon enough whether her daughter was a help 
or a hindrance. 

" I won't come until she calls and calls," thought 
Miranda, angrily. She was uncertain where to go. 
Upstairs it was cold, and she would be too easily 
found — she wished to go where no one would 
think of looking for her. The cellar ! — that was 
the place ! To tell the truth, Miranda seldom 
went there when she could help it. A year or two 
before, Dave had frightened her badly in its dark 
depths by pretending to be a ghost, and she never 
got over a secret dread of "seeing something" 
there. But to-day fear was forgotten in an uglier 
feeling. Miranda had resolved to be miserable. 
The thought of sitting in the darkness among 
potato-barrels and sulking, gave her a grim satis- 
faction. It would seem like another injury heaped 
upon her patient head by her unfeeling family. 

The cellar-door opened from a large store-room 
beyond the kitchen. Miranda passed the boys 
without being noticed; they were deep in a game of 
jack-stones, on the hearth. The fire needed more 
wood. Miranda recollected the goose and the gob- 
bler and half turned to rekindle it; but she hard- 
ened her heart. "Let t/icm look after it, — it 
won't be my fault, now, if the goose and the gob- 
bler are not done in time." She passed on, took 
a candle from the shelf and lit it in the store- 
room, then gently opened and shut the cellar- 

" Now, Dave, gi' me my alley !" shouted William, 
falling upon the offender and scuffling with him. 
Nobody heard the soft closing of the door. The 
big clock in the corner ticked away; the ashes fell 
on the hearth ; the boys, bent upon some new 
plan, rushed out-of-doors ; little Sarah, sitting in 
the corner, had succeeded in unbuttoning her 
frock and buttoning it up again on the unwilling 
kitten, where it was held in place by winding the 
sleeves around and tying them like a sash. 

A few minutes later, Mrs. McKenzie bustled in 
and cast an anxious glance at the clock. 



" Mercy sakcs ! " she cried ; then she looked at 
the fire. "Mercy sakes alive!" she repeated 
excitedly. " You boys ! — why you 've let the fire 
go clean out. M'rindy, why did n't you 'tend to 
il? — After all your fussing and trying to help ! " 

But Miranda and the boys were out of hearing. 
Mrs. McKenzie went to the door and called : 

"Dave, Joseph, Isaac, William, Dan'l, — you 
and M'rindy come straight in the house. Now, 
what ailed you to let the fire go out ? " she asked 
the boys more amiably, remembering the day. 
" Hev you forgot the 
green goose and the 
gobbler? Come, it 
is time to hang 
'em, and high time, 
too ! " 

"Hurrah! "shout- 
ed Daniel, a silent 
youth who seldom 
showed enthusiasm. 
He now hurriedly 
gathered up an arm- 
ful of wood and soon 
had a roaring fire in 
the great, wide stone- 
chimney which took 
up all one side of the 
room. There was a 
Dutch-oven to the 
right of the fire- 
place, the door of 

which, being opened, let out a savory odor. David 
had dragged a chair to the chimney, and by stand- 
ing on it was able to reach the high, narrow shelf. 
Here he felt about and found two big hooks, to 
each of which he fastened a yard of stout twine. 

" Bring forth the victims ! " he called. 

Isaac entered the room tenderly clasping the 
green goose, stiff with cold. Joe followed bearing 
the gobbler. How noble they looked, those two 
birds, portly with stuffing, their wings tightly 
skewered to their sides, their legs crossed with 
an air of beautiful resignation ! The boys then 
hung up the birds, amid jokes and laughter in 
which Mrs. McKenzie joined freely — now that the 
pudding was off her mind. She brought two 
dishes and placed them under the fowls to catch 
the dripping. The boys sat near, delighted to 
hear the hissing, crackling sounds with which the 
goose and the gobbler roasted. The weight of 
the fowls caused them to twirl continually on the 
strings ; but if one ceased for a moment the boys 
made haste to give it a thrust which sent it spin- 
ning and bumping against its companion or the 
jambs of the fire-place. Now and then Mrs. 
McKenzie came and basted them, with a long- 

handled ladle. Meanwhile the roasting birds gave 
out a most appetizing smell. The boys, like young 
epicures as they were, could think of nothing else. 
Indeed it would have been difficult for the greatest 
sage and philosopher, seated before those fat and 
juicy birds, on a frosty Thanksgiving morning, to 
fix his thoughts elsewhere, — above all, if the Buc- 
touche air had given him a perpetual appetite. 

Just at this auspicious moment, there was heard 
a sound of laughter and merry voices, the door was 
flung open, and with a rush of nipping air, in came 



the five frisky McKenzie cousins, followed by bluff 
Uncle Jacob, who was a sea-captain, and Aunt 
Betsey, his wife. 

In the darksome cellar, poor sulky Miranda 
heard all the merriment. Candle in hand, she had 
climbed down the steep stairway, little more than 
a ladder, and, turning to the right, gone doubtfully 
forward, testing with her feet the damp flooring 
which she well knew to be full of pitfalls, for the 
flickering candle-light was not of much use. 

The cellar was large and rambling, like the old 
house, and divided into skeleton rooms by the 
great timbers which supported the partitions 




above. The various stores with which country 
cellars abound, were distributed into these rooms, 
and Miranda was in search of the apple-bins. 
Moving this way and that, she was suddenly left 
in darkness, for a faint gust of air blew out her 
candle. To turn and go back was her first im- 
pulse, the cellar was so damp, so dark, and so ter- 
ribly still. But there was much obstinate pride in 
Miranda. To go back before they missed her 
seemed like surrender. So she kept on, feeling 
her way, dimly making out obstacles by the faint 
light stealing through holes which purposely had 
been left, for ventilation, in the stone foundation of 
the house. When a barrel came under her hand 
she tried its contents. The first held turnips; the 
second, beets : and then came a wide desert 
of potatoes. A broad patch of light on 
the ground gave her a start, but it turned 
out to be only cabbages planted heads-up 
in a shallow bed of sand. In that way 
they were kept fresh through the winter. 
At last, by a sweet, spicy smell, Miranda 
knew that she was in the neighborhood 
of the apple-bins. Presently she touched the 
cool, juicy fruit, and taking a deep bite into 
a luscious apple she settled down with her 
back against a barrel, making believe to be 
comfortable. " Now I '11 wait 
quietly here and enjoy these 
apples, till I hear the folks 
hunting for me," she said. 

Can you imagine a more 
stupid and unpleasant way to 
spend Thanksgiving morn- 

As she sat there in the 
chill silence, the same ques- 
tion occurred to Miranda. 
Little by little, with nothing 
to do but think, she began 
to change her views, to give 
right names to her ill-temper 
and her vanity, and to realize 
how silly her self-importance 
would seem in the eyes of 
her mother and the boys. 

" I sha'n't stay here any 
longer. I 'II go back and try, with all my might, to 
really help," she thought, scrambling to her feet. 

Now, what follows is perfectly true, although it 
seems a queer thing. Miranda found that she was 
lost. Lost in the dark: wandering this way and 
that among the vegetables, butter-kegs, soap-tubs, 
and fish-barrels, groping always for the ladder 
leading up to the light. She strained her eyes, 
trying to see more plainly. A dozen times the 
stairs seemed just before her, but still her fingers 

closed on something else. Big girl as she was — 
" going on eleven " — she began to cry as she wan- 
dered on without ever getting anywhere. . 

"Oh, where is it? Where is it?" she sobbed. 
" I wish I had n't come down here, — I wish I 'd 
minded Mother ! " 

At that moment the stillness was broken by a 


peal of laughter and the trampling of feet over- 
head. The sounds were subdued by the stout 
beams between, but still were so loud that she 
knew the kitchen must be just above her. 

" They are all having a good time; they don't 
even miss me," she thought, angrily. It was a 
bitter, though a needed, lesson. But how to get 
out of the cellar? that was the question now — as 
to whether she was missed or not, Miranda post- 
poned inquiring. If the kitchen were overhead, 



twenty paces one way or another would lead her 
to the stairs. She walked straight ahead for twenty 
steps, and her outstretched hands met the founda- 
tion-wall. Again and again she tried, but soon 
the voices scattered and she no longer knew where 
the kitchen lay. This was after the McKenzie 
cousins arrived, and were taking off their things in 
the best room, and then racing through the hall, 
and then sliding down the stairs. 

Miranda had swallowed the last remnant of pride. 
She had called for help before now ; but in the 
continuous talking and laughter upstairs nobody 
heard her. 

Above, the new-comers had asked and answered 
many questions. Ben had shot nine wild ducks ; 
Uncle Jacob had lost half his spring lambs by the 
unseasonable cold ; Aunt Betsey had been shown 
several rolls of fine homespun cloth, and had 
instructed her sister-in-law how to make a beauti- 
ful purple dye, in which gorgeous tint her daughter 
Mary Ann was arrayed — presenting the appear- 
ance of a very lively larkspur. 

It was Uncle Jacob who finally said : 

" Seems to me I have n't seen all hands. Why, 
where 's M'rindy ? " 

M'rindy, indeed ! 

Where in the world was she ? And presently 
all the family were wondering — then searching — 
then whistling and shouting. Good Mrs. McKen- 
zie had quite forgotten the morning's annoyance, 
and, unable to account for Miranda's disappear- 
ance, was sadly alarmed. The children formed 
scouting-parties and hunted through the garden, 
the barn, and the mill. In all the noise, nobody, 

for a while, heard poor little Miranda calling out, 
" Here I am ! In the cel-lar ! " 

At last Mrs. McKenzie, lifting her hand, ex- 
claimed : 

" Hush ! I heard a cry." 

Then every one, breathlessly listening, heard the 
doleful voice, choked with sobs, repeating : 

"In the cel-lar!" 

They rushed to the door, flung it open, and in 
two seconds had found the poor little lost sheep, 
close by the cellar-stairs. She was crying hard by 
this time, and they were trying their best to comfort 
her, proving that she was indeed loved and had 
been missed in her absence. But she revived as 
if by magic when David suddenly shouted : 

" The goose and the gobbler are singed to a 
coal ! " 

Sure enough ! In the excitement of the search 
for Miranda every one had forgotten the dinner 
roasting before the fire ; and the flames blazing 
up, caught and enwrapped the devoted lairds in a 
devouring flame. 

David's lamentation, in a few minutes more, 
might have been literally true. Fortunately the 
singeing was but skin deep. The fowls were 
rescued, scraped, and set forth in the places of 
honor upon a table loaded with the best of fare, 
amid the jolliest bursts of laughter. When served, 
every one declared them excellent. 

" The goose and gobbler," said the unquench- 
able David, " remind me of the singed cat that 
was better than she looked to be." 

And Miranda, you may be sure, relished them 
far better than her fare of apples in the cellar. 

By Ernest E. Thompson. 

In the spring of 1882 I was sitting one day at 
the door of my house on the prairies of Manitoba, 
watching a furious thunder-storm, accompanied by 
a heavy rainfall. The rolling of the thunder was so 
incessant that the intervals between the peals rarely 
reached thirty seconds ; but in such silent intervals 
as there were, I was surprised to hear again and 
again the sweet melody of the prairie-lark. 

Eager to find the cheery bird, T took down my 
telescope, and from the door surveyed the plain, 

in the direction of the singing; and I at length 
discovered the brave little musician perched on a 
low twig, out in the storm. The rain was beating 
on his back and running in a steady stream from 
the end of his tail, but still he sang on, in the loud, 
melodious strains that have made the Western 
meadow-lark famous as a songster. He sat upon 
the bough so steadily, with one foot tucked up out 
of the wet, and sang with so little apparent intention 
of stopping on account of the weather, that I went 

6 4 


for paper and pencil, and, observing him through 
the telescope, made a sketch which I afterward 
finished more carefully, and now present to the 

The other bird, on the wing, was added to show 

distinguish them, they are so unlike in voice and 
habits that they need not be confounded by the 
young naturalist. The song of the Eastern mead- 
ow-lark is a pleasing feature of the bird-concerts 
in the fields of eastern America ; yet the song does 


that the prairie meadow-lark also sings in the air, not give the bird a position of superiority, nor even 

like a true lark. a place in the first rank of our songsters. But the 

It may be well to explain that the bird before song of the Western bird is loud, wild, melodious, 

us is very different from the common meadow-lark and varied beyond description, and will yet secure 

of the Eastern States. Though they are so much for it the highest place of all in the estimation of 

alike in appearance that none but an expert can those who delight in bird-music. 


By Charles Ledyard Norton. 

Elsie has made an invention, and her papa, 
who is a lawyer, declares that she must have it pat- 
ented, because, if s/ie does not, somebody else will, 
as soon as it is seen in public. Nobody was more 
surprised than Papa when he was told that his little 
daughter had made a useful invention. He knew 
that she was rather ingenious in the matter of girl- 
ish devices, and she seemed to take such profes- 
sional pride in the care of little Fred, her invalid 
brother (who had something the matter with his 
spine), that the whole family had long ago decided 
that she was destined to be either a woman doctor 
or a trained nurse. 

They were a large family, the Holworthys. Some 
of them were already nearly grown and helping 
to earn their own living — that is, the boys were — 
and the older girls were at their wits'-end to devise 
some way of doing their share. After much dis- 
tress of mind they had decided that, for the present, 
the best they could do was to help Mamma, who, 
with her household cares and poor little Fred to 
fret her, — not to mention the other boys' clothes, — 
was rather overburdened at times. 

Elsie, as has been said, had gradually assumed, 
more and more, the care of the invalid ; but of 
late his poor little twisted spine had caused 
him more trouble than usual. The pillows did 
not seem to fit, or else they were too warm ; and 
though the little fellow tried to be patient, Elsie 
saw that he was perpetually uncomfortable, and 
she set her brain to work to invent a remedy. She 
tried him in the easy-chair, tilted back, but that 
would not do; and in the rocking-chair, but that 
was worse. He was lifted into the hammock, and 
for a while was comfortable, for he said that it fit- 
ted nicely and was cool, and seemed to hold him 
in its arms ; but, after a while, he slipped down 
toward the middle of the hammock and again the 
pain returned. 

"Else," he said, at length, "I don't believe 
anything will do, unless we can melt the easy-chair, 
and the rocking-chair, and the bed, and the ham- 
mock, all into one. I do believe I could be com- 
fortable in that." He did not mean to be peevish 
or unreasonable, but the dull, never-ceasing back- 
ache and restlessness were more than he could 
endure ; and the tears came into his eyes as Elsie 
stood before him watching his pale, pinched face. 

Vol. XVI.— 5. 65 

" Fred," she exclaimed suddenly, after ponder- 
ing a few minutes, " I believe I can do it ! " 
" Do what?" 

"Why, melt the rocking-chair and the ham- 
mock into one. Yes, and the easy-chair and the 
bed too ! " And she gave a little skip as her idea 
took definite shape. 

" It won't take long to do it, and you can help. 
You know how we netted the hammock. Well, 
our new contrivance can be made in the same way. 
There is some twine left. I '11 get the needles and 
mesh-sticks, and we will go right at it," 

Fred was interested at once, entered heartily 
into the scheme, and forgot his aching back for 
the time ; but Elsie would not tell him all her 
plans, because, she said, she was not very sure of 
them herself, and they might not succeed after all, 
and that would disappoint him. 

There was a broken-down hammock in the 
garret, which entered into Elsie's calculations. 
Having procured this, they managed, by mending 
a few rents and using a 
pair of shears freely, to 
keep pleasantly busy for an 
hour, and they constructed 
something like Fig. I. 
It was merely a little net 
about four feet square, with 
round wooden rods, about 
eighteen inches long, thrust 
through the meshes at top 
and bottom. To the ends of 
one of the rods a line was 
fastened, and tacks were 
driven into both rods to fasten 
the meshes so that they could 
not slip from side to side. 

Fred could not conceive 
what was to be done with it. 
Elsie, with the wonderful tact 
that made her so excellent a nurse, managed to 
keep his curiosity excited and at the same time to 
prevent his becoming cross in consequence of her 
refusal to explain. 

" Now, I must run away with it for a few min- 
utes," she said, when the work was done, "and 
when I come back it will be all ready for the 
'grand combination act.' See! here is the last 




St. NICHOLAS with the rest of the story which you 
began last month." 

And Elsie produced the magazine, which she had 
thoughtfully held in reserve for some such crisis. 

Fred received it eagerly and was deep in the 
story before she reached the door. Wearied with 
her long confinement, Elsie skipped down-stairs 
and out to the orchard, where she knew she would 
find some camp-stools under the " sunset tree." 

Placing one of them in the shade, under a con- 
veniently low limb of the tree, she placed the lower 
part of the net upon it, so that the ends of one 
rod rested just under the ends of the cross-pieces. 
Then she threw the line over the limb and hoisted 
the top of the net until it hung in a curve, as shown 
in Fig. 2. Deftly making two half-hitches (an ac- 
complishment which her cousin, a naval cadet, had 
taught her), she gave a pull to see that all was se- 
cure, and then very carefully sat down and leaned 
back, prudently reaching up over her head and 
taking hold of the upper rod to prevent falling 
over backward. 

Luckily, she had made a good guess at the cor- 
rect length of the line, and she gave a little sigh 
of delight which turned into a half shriek as the 
camp-stool unexpectedly reared upon its hind legs 
and threatened to go over backward. However, 
it went just so far and no farther, and Elsie had 
only to place another camp-stool within reach of 
her feet, and her bliss was complete. 

The "few minutes" were gone forever, and 
Elsie, wearied with her sisterly cares, and the men- 
tal labor of 
" contriving," 
slept serenely 
under the ap- 
ple-tree in the 
lap of her in- 

'• Who is 
that in the or- 
chard ? " 

" It looks 
like Elsie." 

"What is 
she sitting in?" 
"I don't know. 

F1G - 2 - T 

Let s go see. 
This from the two younger boys as they came 
home from school. Over the stone-wall they scram- 
bled, and with a common impulse raced down 
through the orchard, with difficulty suppressing 
a yell when they discovered their sister asleep in 
such a strange combination of hammock and camp- 
stool. She, however, waked at the rush of feet, 
and was at once overwhelmed with questions : 

" Where did you get it? " " Who gave it to you ?" 
'"'Let us try it?" Elsie was fain to give place to 
the boys, who, boy-like, pronounced the invention 
" immense ! " and declared that F'red must be im 

n lytMi 


mediately carried out and placed in what Tom 
called Elsie's "self-adjusting, back-acting, ham- 
mocky easy rocking-chair." 

Mamma's consent was obtained, and Fred — a 
pitifully light-weight — was soon tenderly placed in 
the newly-invented chair, where, for more than an 
hour, he was admired by all beholders, including 
the entire Holworthy family, and their immediate 
neighbors. Before he had not been able to spend 
more than half an hour in the open air; but now, 
rocked gently by the breeze, he could not bear to 
be taken in-doors even at sunset, and nothing 
would do but to have Elsie's chair suspended 
from the hammock-hook in his own room, with a 
camp-stool to complete the arrangement. It is- 
very singular, but he began to gain from that very 
day, and even the doctor says the improvement is 
largely due to Elsie's invention. 

Of course the boys went right to work and made 
hammock-backs for every camp-stool on the prem- 
ises. The doctor asked, and, of course, received 
Elsie's permission, to introduce them in the hos- 
pital ; the State Medical Inspector has mentioned 
them in his official report, and Elsie has received 
so many congratulations that her brothers say she 
will certainly be spoiled. 

But Mamma and Fred insist that even when she 
is spoiled, nobody will know it. 

NOTE. — Elsie's invention may be made just as 
well from a strip of thin canvas or stair-cloth, of 


6 7 

suitable width. In the case of the latter, the 
material may be doubled under, forming a sort of 
pocket or bag to fit over the end of the camp- 
stool ; the lower rod may, therefore, be omitted. 
In using a net, it will be found that the meshes 
will hang almost straight up and down if suspended 
one way, but will draw together in the middle if 
hung the other way. The point of suspension 

may be the trunk, instead of the limb, of a tree, or 
a hook in a wall, or, in fact, anything that will bear 
a moderate weight. If a hook can be fixed in the 
ceiling above the head of a lounge or a bed, the 
hammock-back can be adjusted — the occupant 
sitting on the lower part — so that it makes a de- 
lightfully cool and easy support in a half-reclining 

By Margaret Eytinge. 

One night, an owl was prowling round 

Looking for mice, when on the ground 

He spied a cat, and straightway flew 

Quite close to it. " Tu whit, tu whoo ! " 

Quoth he, "may I again ne'er stir, 

If here, dressed in a coat of fur, 

I do not see a four-legged owl. 

Oh, what a very funny fowl! 

It makes me laugh, so droll — Ha ! ha ! 

Ha! ha! — it are, — ha! ha! ha! ha! 

It are, it are, it really are 

The drollest thing I 've seen by far ! " 

You 're much mistaken, scornful sir," 

The cat said, as she ceased to purr ; 

For though, like one, I often prowl 

About at night, I am no owl. 

And if I were, why, still would you 

Be queerer creature of the two ; 

For you look, there 's no doubt of that, 

Extremely like a two-legged cat. 

As for your grammar, 'pon my word 

(Excuse this giggle), he-he-he-he, 

It be, it be, it really be 

The very worst I ever heard." 


By O. Herford. 

Our Dear Little Maid: 

We must bid you good-bye, 
For November is here, and it 's time we should fly 
To the South, where we have an engagement to 

But remember this, dear, we '11 return in the spring. 
And if, while abroad, we hear anything new, 
We '11 learn it, and sing it next summer to you 
the same little tree on the lawn, if you '11 let us. 
5, good-bye, little maiden ! Please do not forget us. 
,'e 're sorry to leave you — too sorry for words, 
ad we '11 always remain, 

Yours sincerely, j 

" The Birds." 
S. — Please don't mind if this letter sounds flat, 
And present our respectful regards to your cat. 




We took our pussy's photograph, 

Then one of a neighbor's cat, 
And then a third, and then a fourth, 

A dozen pussies sat. 
And then we took the photograph 

Of every photograph ; 
Oh, that is often done, you know ; 

Indeed you need n't laugh ! 

We showed Mamma the last effect. 
"Here is the type," we said, 
"Of all the dozen pussy cats — 

See what a splendid head ! " 
" Splendid? A terror ! " cried Mamma, 

Quite frank, to say the least. 
" Each puss would be a truer type 
Than this composite beast ! " 






Good-day, my beloved. It is delightful to see 
your fresh, bright faces on this cool, clear morning. 
Let us open the day, together, with this pretty nut- 
ting song sent by our friend Emma C. T)o\vd : 

Autumn has come ! Now, girls and boys, 
Here 's fun that 's worth a hundred joys ! 
Bring on your baskets and your pails, 
And scamper over hills and dales 
To where the good old chestnuts stand, 
Dropping their gifts on every hand. 

Tap ! tap ! the merry nuts fall fast, 
No time to take a sly repast ! 
What fun it is ! the air resounds 
With eager cries and joyous sounds ; 
Oh, never sport deserved more praise 
Than nutting on these autumn days ! 

After the nutting, we '11 all step across to Italy, 
so to speak, and take a look at 


It will be easy to do this, for the dear Little School- 
ma'am has sent you an extract from a delightful 
letter she has received from a friend now traveling 
in Italy. He writes from Venice, one of the love- 
liest cities in the world : 

" The famous Doge's Palace and the beautiful 
Cathedral of St. Mark's are 'just around the cor- 
ner,' so that we walk to them within two minutes' 
time. We lunched to-day in the celebrated Cafe 
Florian, in the Piazza San Marco, and after- 
ward fed the pigeons in fine style. You can't 
imagine how delightful we found it. For three 
soldi, or pennies, you buy a little cornucopia filled 
with kernels, and no sooner do these pretty birds 
see it in your hand than they throng about you 

seemingly by hundreds, certainly by scores — in 
the air and on the ground — eager for the treat. 
After scattering some grains upon the ground, I 
stood up and held out a handful at arm's-length — 
when, whisk .' with a great flutter and whirr, half- 
a-dozen of the lovely creatures were upon my 
wrist and fingers, and were emptying my palm in 
a jiffy, with perfect fearlessness. This attracted 
others, and, in a moment more, three were walking 
around upon my hat, and my head was the center of 
a small cloud of wings. I kept up this performance 
by filling my hand again, emptying upon my hat 
what was left in the paper, and the birds kept up 
their part, too, until we had around us quite a little 
ring of lounging Venetians, who seemed to enjoy 
the spectacle." 


SOME of my bird friends who spend their winters 
in Mexico have told me how the birds there man- 
age to store and eat the acorns, of which they are 
as fond as robins are of strawberries. In order to 
save the desired morsel, the birds carry the acorns 
in their bills, sometimes for miles, to the steep dry 
sides of a mountain which in winter is covered with 
the hollow stalks of the last year's agave flowers. 
Beginning at the bottom, they bore, with their skill- 
ful beaks, little holes in these dead stalks. The holes 
are then filled with acorns, and by and by, when 
food grows scarce, our birds come back to their 
mountain-side store-houses, take out an acorn at a 
time and fly with it to a neighboring yucca-tree, 
in the bark of which they bore an opening large 
enough to hold the acorn firmly ; then they can 
insert the nut, break it open, • and eat it in 


Talking of store-houses reminds me that this 
morning my gay little friend the red-squirrel came 
out of his hiding-place in the crotch of a big 
elm-tree, whisking his pretty bushy tail and ra- 
cing about over the elm's big branches until he had 
gained an appetite for his breakfast ; and then he 
went into his store-house and brought forth a last 
year's hickory-nut, carrying it in his cheek until he 
came to a spot which suited him for a dining-room. 
There he seated himself saucily, curled his tail up 
over his back in a jaunty fashion, took the nut in 
his handy little fore-paws and began to eat it. 

While Mr. Squirrel was munching the nut, I won- 
dered if he knew what an ancient ancestry the nut 
can claim. Probably he did not know, and very 
possibly he would not care anything about it ; but 
it is true that the ancestors of the hickory-nut that 
he was relishing so much, flourished in the land 
long before the great ribs of the Rocky Mountains 
had risen above the sea. 

— How is that ? How is what, my chicks ? Oh, 
that about the Rocky Mountains having risen above 
the sea ? Well, the fact is, I once heard the Little 
School-ma'am speak of the matter to the Red 
school-house boys, but I can not remember the 
confusing particulars now. Ask your geologies. 




Newport, R. I. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulht : I saw something this morning which 
may be as interesting to your boys and girls as it was to me. 

I was sitting on the piazza, watching the bathers, when I hap- 
pened to see a wasp fly through a spider's web, and wasp and spider 
come to the ground together. This seemed unusual to me ; but I 
thought it an accident, and watched idly to see how long it would 
take the spider to vanquish the wasp, which seemed to be strug- 
gling. The spider was what I would call quite a large one of the 
kind that is so frequently seen in sheltered corners out-of-doors. The 
wasp was not an ordinary one; it was small, the body striped white 
and black, and not so " wasp-waisted " as the kind I have gener- 
ally seen. After struggling an instant, the wasp broke away from 
the spider, but the latter lay motionless. Then I was curious, and 
awaited the sequel. Some other ladies who were with me were afraid 
of the wasp and tried to kill it, but I begged them not to, so fortu- 
nately I saw the end. The wasp flew away, frightened by the ladies' 
parasols, but quickly came back and hunted around till it found the 
spider, which had never moved, although it did not look as if it were 
dead, as its legs were not curled up, which is always the case when / 
kill a spider. The wasp next dragged the spider, which certainly 
must have weighed considerably more than itself, a little distance, 
then finally lifted it and flew off. It was evidentlya deliberate attack 
and capture on the part of the wasp. 

I know it is the habit of the species of wasp called " mud-dauber" 
to capture small spiders, but they are generally the soft-webbers — 
green ones which live in the trees. This was a large, hairy, brown 

I read a little article of Mr. Burroughs's, as to the habits of some 
spiders, in a recent number of St. Nicholas. Although interest- 
ing, I dislike them exceedingly. The performance of this morn- 
ing, however, appeared to me such a reversal of the usual order 
of things that I thought you might like to tell the true story to your 
crowds of readers. I am a " grown up," but I always read St. Nich- 
olas, and have read it for fifteen years. 

Your constant reader, S. K. 


That 's what I heard a farmer say this morning 
when he looked at a great bed of thistles that were 
smiling away on a fertile hill-side. They were all 
purple with bloom, and I thought they looked very 
pretty; but the farmer called them ill weeds and 
caused them to be mown down. He said that there 
are too many of them ; that from the North Pole to 
the Equator they grow and blossom and send their 
white-winged seeds flying as if the whole earth be- 
longed to them. He said there is no climate nor 
country where thistles are not to be found. Is that 
in accord with your observations, my hearers ? 


A bee has told me — and the bee ought to know, 
for he too has a sting, and uses it — that long, long 
ago, the nettle was a peaceful plant, as unoffending 
as a blade of grass, but that, living in constant fear 
of beingbrowsed upon by donkeys, trampled under- 
foot by cattle, plucked by children, or grubbed up 
root and all by the farmer, its temper — poor thing ! 
— became forever soured, and at last drove it into 
a restless, feverish, waspish habit of stinging every- 
body who touched it. 

Bees, you see, have a little fun in them, after 
all, though you are not apt to think so while they 
are stinging you. 


Santa Barbara, Cal. 
Mv Dear Jack : I read in your last numberabout a large grape- 
vine in England, and I thought I would write and tell you about 
Santa Barbara's grape-vine It is forty-six inches around the trunk, 
and forty tons of grapes were gathered from it last year. It is fifty- 
two years old. My sister Lou and I take riding-lessons. We live 
in Albuquerque, New Mexico, but are spending the summer here. 
Your loving reader, Nellie E. H . 


Who threw this queer jingle upon my pulpit? 
It must have been some one who knows the Deacon 
as well as the Little School-ma'am. But everybody 
knows them ; and so — 

Ah, I know ! It was somebody in sympathy 
with the artist who drew the picture that came 
at the same time ! Now, for the jingle : 

" You are old, my dear deacon," the school-ma'am 

" And studies with youth pass away ; 

Yet you 're quite in advance of the books, I am 

sure, — 
Now tell me the reason, I pray." 

"In the days of my youth," the good deacon 

" I was fleetest of foot in my set ; 
And I ran on ahead of my studies so fast 

That they 've never caught up with me yet." 

'i V ;;.; . .....^^wdff 1 :--. ' % 

' I'liii'li!! 1 ^ :! 'Hli.i.i: ■;., i |i i|-i. ij ..,' t „ 


Words by Mary J. Jacques. 

olndantino con moio. 

Music by T. C. H, 


*EE*EE^3^ E=t 


i. Come up in- to La- dy - Bird's cham - ber, The sun and the wind, long a- 


=1 J- 


«: : *^ ^*- * -W- -•■ 


/I w/J 





0071 Pedalc. 

^=^=C=£=^=C: ^^Es^Sg 

vake, Are play - ing bo-peep at her win-dows, And La - dy- Bird's bed is to 


a tempo. 


»- » m~ — 3 — 

--I T - 

^E2EE±^ ^ ^m} 


So spread up the lav- en-dered I'm - en, With blank-ets tucked in at the 

i i i * 


-J, — s =& 

i *-' 

« tempo. 





a tempo. 


And wish her the soft - est of slum - bers, For La - dy-Bird 's sweet as a 




« tempo. 





ri(. . 

For La - dv-Bird's sweet as 

. . . e£ di??i. 









The haunts of the wild-bee and woodbird 
Are ringing all day with her glee ; 

When down in her white nest she cuddles, 
With a sigh and a smile — lost is she ! 

Then shake up the drowsy old bolster, 
And plump it across at the head, 

And pat-pat the downy white pillows, 
To dress up my Lady-Bird's bed, 
To dress up my Lady-Bird's bed. 

By Harlan H. Ballard. 

The Agassiz Association, as most of you 
know, is a union of local societies which have 
been organized for the study of nature by personal 

It is not for the sake of any money you may 
make out of it that we advocate the study of 
nature. If it were, our association must change 
its name ; for Louis Agassiz used to say that he 
had " no time to make money." We urge you 
to join us in this study for the sake of learning 
what is true. We honor those who set knowledge 
above "gold and the crystal," and esteem the 
price of wisdom "above rubies." There is great 
pleasure in the mere seeking of truth. There is a 
delight in all discovery. 

Now, nature offers to every one of us new gifts 
every day. No matter how long a beetle may 
have been known to others, until you have found it 
for yourself, it is not old to you. So, too, although 
the species may be familiar, each new specimen 
has the charm of novelty. 

But besides the pleasure of learning, it has been 
found that one who studies nature aright greatly 
improves his powers of attention, discrimination, 
and reasoning. The right way to study nature is 
to use your own eyes instead of depending upon 
printed accounts of what somebody else has seen 
with his. It is a lazy boy who hires another to do 
his fishing for him. To depend upon the observa- 
tion of others will no more increase your mental 
powers than it would improve your muscular devel- 
opment if a friend should swing Indian clubs for 
you. To one who tries to get all his knowledge 
of nature from books, everything comes at second- 
hand ; nothing comes to him as his own discovery. 
There is no joy in it, and but little benefit. That 
is why the Agassiz Association always insists upon 
" personal observation "; which is simply a Latin- 
ized way of saying, using your own eyes to see 
what you can see. 

This statement should make plain the nature of 
the work expected from the little clubs we are 
organizing in so many cities and towns. The 
members are to search and find out what there is 
of interest within, say, five miles of home. 

In order to do this, they will make excursions 
after flowers, minerals, insects, or whatever they 
most care about, and perhaps make a map show- 

ing just where each sort may be found. Of course, 
they will find a few books useful to help them learn 
the names of what they find ; they will need a 
cabinet in which to keep their treasures ; and they 
will be glad to have wise men lecture to them now 
and then, and explain the things that are too hard 
to study out for themselves. I can not see that it 
would do any great harm even if every town and 
village in the land should have its Natural Science 
Club, with a little library and museum, and with 
wide-awake members ready at any time to give the 
curious traveler an account of all the interesting 
objects to be found in an afternoon's walk, and 
able to show him specimens of each variety, nicely 
preserved, accurately classified, and neatly labeled. 
All who have read St. Nicholas carefully for a 
few years past, know that the Agassiz Association 
has organized societies of this sort very success- 
fully, and that the boys and girls — yes, and their 
parents and teachers, too — have found much rec- 
reation in these clubs, and learned much natural 
history and natural science, as well. 

During this very year, and since I last wrote to 
you about our Association, more than a hundred 
new clubs or " Chapters " have been added to our 
roll — and that means more than a thousand new 
members. You see, there must be at least four in 
a chapter, and there may be as many more as are 
desired. One of our chapters, in New Brunswick, 
N. J., has more than four hundred members, with 
about a dozen professors to guide them, and there 
are microscopes, and stereopticons, and all sorts 
of instruments to aid them in their studies. 

After a number of these little clubs are fairly at 
work in any large city, or throughout a State, they 
often wish to become better acquainted with one 
another, and so the clubs hold joint-meetings oc- 
casionally, and they call these large united gath- 
erings "Assemblies." 

These Assemblies elect their own officers, and 
hold regular conventions. One of the largest has 
been formed this year by combining the various 
societies in Massachusetts. We had a very suc- 
cessful convention in Boston on Decoration Day. 
This holiday happens to occur within a few days of 
Agassiz's birthday, which is very pleasant and 
convenient for us. There was an address from 
Professor Hyatt, of the Boston Society of Natural 



History, a man deservedly popular with young 
people ; and one from Professor Crosby, who has 
been conducting for our benefit a very interesting 
course of lessons in mineralogy, extending over 
more than a year (for which lessons he furnishes 
the specimens and necessary instruments). Pro- 
fessor Morse, of Salem, the author of an excellent 
book on the study of zoology, also lectured to us. 
Professor Morse's son is a member of a very active 
chapter of the Agassiz Association, so active that 
it organized a stock company of boys and built 
a house for their meetings. Dr. Lincoln, who is 
now helping the members of our Boston Assembly 
to make a thorough study of all minerals to be 
found within ten miles of the Boston State House, 
was also one of our instructors. 

Another of our recently formed Assemblies is the 
State Assembly of New Jersey. Rev. L. H. Light- 
hipe is president of this Assembly, and while I 
write (August ioth), he is conducting a well-at- 
tended sea-side meeting. It is to continue for a 
week. Every morning the members make an ex- 
cursion, under the lead of some expert, and may 
have the choice of Botany, Entomology, or Micro- 
scopy. Every afternoon they gather in the large 
Educational Hall, and examine their "finds," with 
the assistance of the Professor who led them in the 
morning. Every evening they attend a lecture, 
usually illustrated by the gas-microscope, or by 
the stereopticon. Professor Austen, the president 
of the New Brunswick Chapter, has been very 
helpful in organizing and managing this pleasant 
sea-side Assembly. 

The Iowa State Assembly is about to hold its 
fifth annual convention. Iowa conventions are 
always successful. All the chapters send dele- 
gates, who bring to the meeting not only carefully 
written reports of the work the chapters have done 
during the year, but also the finest of the speci- 
mens collected. The young men, and young 
women, too, give most interesting accounts of 
their studies, illustrating them with specimens, 
original drawings, diagrams, and maps. Then 
there is a dinner, a meeting for the practical demon- 
stration of their methods of work, and one or two 
excursions. This Assembly offers three prizes 
each year for the best work done in any chapter 
since the previous convention. 

I must not stop to give in detail accounts even 
of all our large Assemblies ; still less can I under- 
take to tell of the individual chapters. Among 
so many, it would be impossible to select single 
ones for special praise. Merely by way of illustra- 
tion, however, I may mention Chapter No. 3, of 
Frankford, Philadelphia, which, under the lead 
of John Shallcross and Robert T. Taylor, has 
maintained itself in full vigor since the first year 

of our extension beyond Massachusetts, and which 
was instrumental in founding the Philadelphia 
Assembly, the first Assembly in the Association. 

The "Manhattan Chapter," of New York City, 
is a noteworthy illustration of what young people 
can do without aid. This society has grown from 
a handful of boys, meeting" from house to house, 
into a club of a hundred young men, renting rooms 
at No. 103 Lexington Avenue, and exhibiting there 
a fine collection fairly representing the natural 
productions of Manhattan Island. ' This chapter, 
like all others, is glad to welcome visitors to its 

The largest chapter in Massachusetts is No. 448, 
of Fitchburg, with a hundred and fifty members. 
This chapter has published a handsome pamphlet, 
giving an account of all the flowering plants to be 
found in the vicinity. 

A new sort of club has been devised and put 
into successful operation during the year. Chap- 
ters of this sort are called " Corresponding Chap- 
ters." They are composed of members who do 
not live in the same town, but are united by their 
common interest in the same study. The first of 
these was the Archaeological Chapter. Its Presi- 
dent is Hilborne T. Cresson, of Philadelphia ; Vice- 
president, Dr. C. C. Abbott, of Trenton, N. J. ; 
Secretary, A. H. Leitch, of Dayton, O. The mem- 
bers of this club are grown men ; and they propose, 
under the auspices and general direction of the 
Peabody Museum, of Cambridge, to preserve an- 
cient mounds from the spade of the vandal and 
the speculator, until they can be properly and 
scientifically explored under competent supervis- 
ion. Two other corresponding chapters recently 
added are the Gray Memorial Chapter, for the 
study of botany, and the Isaac Lea Memorial 
Chapter, for the study of shells. 

It is worthy of mention that from the beginning 
the girls and women have kept equal step with the 
boys and men, not only in patient and thorough 
work in field and laboratory but also in the work 
of organization and direction. Many ladies are 
efficient secretaries, curators, or presidents of chap- 
ters, and one girl has held with honor the office of 
president of a State Assembly. 

We have been asked why we favor the estab- 
lishment of societies. Why should not the study 
be carried on by individuals ? All true study, it is 
claimed by these critics, is prosecuted in solitude 
and silence. Great books are not written by a 
society of authors ; poets do not sing in chorus ; 
artists do not paint in clubs ; and the light of scien- 
tific discovery has come to the world in little flashes 
of illumination, which have fallen singly upon the 
minds of silent and lonely thinkers. 

There is much truth in this argument, and there 

7 6 


can be no good work done either in or out of any 
society unless each separate worker acts and thinks 
for and by himself. Yet there are important ad- 
vantages which are secured by united effort. Every 
one who finds anything that interests him, wants 
some one to whom he can show it. A pleasure 
shared is a pleasure doubled. Thus, at the meet- 
ings of our clubs, each member has a friendly 
audience to listen to the results of his private study. 
Then, too, when several friends join in a society 
they are often able to buy more expensive books 
and instruments than any could afford alone. A 
library may be had, a microscope bought, a lect- 
urer secured, a room rented, a building erected. 
Think, too, of the pleasure of these social gather- 
ings, often enlivened by music and song ; think of 
the pleasant excursions, picnics or field-meetings, 
and the occasional evening receptions. 

Besides, when we bring several of these local 
clubs into fellowship with one another through 
correspondence, exchanges, or a convention now 
and then, the pleasures and benefits are greatly 
increased, and many things are done which no 
single chapter could do. Storms can be traced 
and their courses represented on maps ; erratic 
bowlders can be tracked to their ancient homes ; 
the routes of travel of birds and insects can be 
followed for hundreds of miles, and facts of inter- 
est gathered in every department of science. 

One of the most important features of the last 
year's work has been in this direction. Simple 
blanks have been sent to different chapters, with 
the request that they be filled out with records 
of local observation in particular branches. One 
boy has prepared a set of blanks on which differ- 
ent observers are writing accounts of all the dragon- 
flies they may see, telling the place where each 
specimen was found, its name, description, habits, 
etc., and other members have prepared similar 
blanks for records of observations on birds and 
minerals. In this way distant parts of the country 
are brought into friendly acquaintance, and boys 
of Maine and boys of Florida, girls of California 
and girls of Massachusetts, become interested in 
learning one another's thoughts, and in giving one 
another information and assistance. 

Perhaps a more definite idea of what our boys 
and girls find in their rambles may be gained from 
a list of a few of the topics upon which members 
have made original notes during the year. From 
hundreds may be named these : Two Rare Fossils 
from Catskill, Rose-Leaf Galls, White Blackbirds, 
Ivy-Blossoms, Curious Trees, Animals that do not 
Drink, Do Salmon Eat Birds? Complementary 
Colors, An Abnormal Cabbage-Leaf. A Living 
Barometer, Rainbow and Sun-Dogs, Double Ad- 
der's-Tongue, New Jersey Butterflies, Eggs of the 
Cray-fish, Colorado Ants, Floating Pollen, A 
Double Stinger, Frost Pictures, An Experience 
with a Heron, A White Weasel, A Strange Mouse, 
Girls in a Silver-Mine. 

In closing this brief report, I wish, in behalf of 
the Agassiz Association, again to invite all who 
are in any way interested in the study of Nature 
to join us, either by organizing societies in their 
own towns ; or, if that be impossible, by joining as 
individuals. All are welcome, from the oldest to 
the youngest. We have a council of fifty scient- 
ists always ready to receive from our members 
questions about whatever may puzzle them, and 
these gentlemen are eager to give all the help they 
can. We are just about to begin a course of sim- 
ple observation-lessons in botany, open to all our 
members. The plan is to send to every one who 
takes the course a set of perhaps fifty specimens, 
nicely prepared, with printed instructions on the 
proper way of so observing them as to see all that 
can be seen, and for telling in the proper way all 
that is seen — and nothing more. To all who 
would like to consider the question of joining the 
Association, we will send, free, papers giving full 
directions for organizing a club or a chapter, or for 
joining alone. We will also send, until the sup- 
ply is exhausted, an excellent wood-engraving of 
Agassiz, representing him examining a sea-urchin. 
This picture is printed on one of the papers of 
information, but is one of the best likenesses of 
Professor Agassiz in existence. All who are inter- 
ested may address : 

The Agassiz Association, 
50 South Street, 

Pittsfield, Mass. 


Whittier, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Although I have taken you for nearly 
seven years, this is my first attempt at a letter, and I think it will 
have the honor of being the first sent to the " Letter-box " from 
Whittier, as our little town is scarcely a year old, although it has 
nearly a thousand inhabitants. We think it has one of the prettiest 
locations possible, at the foot of the Puente Hills, about twenty miles 
from the Pacific, which can be plainly seen. On clear days, we can 
easily count the vessels in San Pedro Harbor, twenty miles away. 
And the Santa Catalina Island, thirty-five miles from shore, is in 
sight nearly all the time. The town is five hundred feet above 
sea-level and overlooks the beautiful Los Nietos and Santa Anna 
valleys with their orange orchards, vineyards, etc. The hills are 
fifteen hundred feet above sea-level, and with their lovely, although 
small, canons afford splendid opportunities for picnicking and "ex- 
ploring." We girls are very fond of the latter, and there are very 
few of the pretty spots within an afternoon's walk with which we 
are unacquainted. The greater portion of the inhabitants of Whittier 
are Friends, or Quakers ; consequently the most appropriate name 
for the settlement was that of the great "Quaker Poet," and all 
true Whittierius love the name of the town almost as well as the 
town itself. The Friends' College, to be erected on the Pacific 
Coast and to cost $ioo,cno, is located at Whittier, and the grading of 
the grounds for the buildings is nearly completed. The college is on 
quite a high hill and will be visible for miles. " The Greenleaf " is 
our best hotel, and it is said to be one of the best in the southern part 
of the State, with exception of those in the larger cities. I am four- 
teen years old and my native State is Iowa, but I have also lived in 
Kansas and Texas I like California best, however, for here we have 
only to turn around to see ocean, mountains, and valley, perpetual 
snow and perpetual summer. I am afraid my description of the 
country is rather "dry," but if this is published I will write again 
about one of our many excursions, picnics, etc. I wish that more of 
your Northern readers were in this land of sunshine, for I am sure that 
they would enjoy it as well as I do. Attios, dear St. Nicholas, 
with love and best wishes from your California friend and constant 
reader, Lou H . 

Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I wish to write you a letter, and tell you 
how much I enjoy reading the St. Nicholas. 

Our mails from San Francisco come twice a month, and some- 
times we have to wait for the papers. The stories I have liked the 
best are "Sara Crewe," " Santa Claus in the Pulpit," and "The 
Clocks of Rondaine. " 

I think it is very good of you to publish letters from little girls and 
boys. Reading these letters made ine want to write, too, so that I 
could have mine published also. 

I have lived in Southern California and in Honolulu. I like 
Honolulu better ; it is not so warm in summer, nor so cold in win- 
ter. I must not write too long a letter this time. 

From your admiring reader, Clarence H. S . 

to call by name was " St. Nicky." One day, when she was only 
about a year and one-half old, she said to Mamma, " P'ease go down 
to Ganma's and see Sa' Nicky ! " She loves the " Brownies," and 
can tell the Dude and Chinaman. My younger sister calls Mr. Cox, 
" Uncle Palmer." 

How much we shall all miss our dear Miss Alcott ! 

Your interested reader, Molly B . 

Dear St. Nick : I have seen several stories of little folks in your 
"Letter-box," and thought I would write you some of the funny 
sayings of our Baby Kate, who is three years old. 

One night she wanted to go to her auntie's; " But Kate, it is dark," 
said Mamma. " Dark dot no mouf; dark dot no teefs ; dark tan't 
bite," was baby's answer. 

She mixes the parts of speech ; for instance, she told me, one 
day, "Polly very bad dirl ; she Papa told she not to bloke she 
umbrella ; her did." 

She always calls the spring of water the " spring time." 

Her papa called her his " sunshine," but she improved on it, and 
when some one called her "a fraud," she answered, " No, I is n't a 
frog, I 'se papa shine daughter ! " 

And, indeed, she is a " shine daughter " for us all. 


Melbourne, Australia. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : I am afraid I am rather old to write 
to you, as I am nearly seventeen ; but as I still read and love your 
magazine very much, my age does not matter, I suppose. 

I live in Hawthorn, one of the many suburbs of Melbourne, and 
as I am an only child, 1 have a grand time. 

The school to which I have been going for six years, is to be given 
up at midwinter, to my great distress, as by that I shall lose my best 
friend, Muriel, the daughter of my school-mistress. There are to he 
some nice tableaux at our breaking-up, instead of the usual French 
or German play. There is to be " Rosalind in Arden," " Hcr- 
mione," " Present, Past, and Future," and "Rebecca and Rowena." 
We were to have had Tennyson's " Dream of Fair Women," but 
we found that there were not enough " fair" girls in the school. 

All the Melbourne people are looking forward eagerly to our grand 
exhibition of August; there are great preparations for it going on 
now, and the building is growing enormous. The pictures are what 
I shall specially love, as I am very fond of painting, and like your 
beautiful illustrations so much. Senhor Loureiro, a Portuguese artist, 
teaches me drawing and painting at school, and I am very fond of 
drawing little pictures from your magazine, as birthday-cards. Those 
by Mr. Birch, in " Sara Crewe " and " Little Lord Fauntleroy," 
are my especial favorites. I take great delight in reading, and 
should like to travel all over the world to see the places described 
in books. There is a splendid rink close by our house, where my 
friends and I often skate ; I am very fond indeed of it. 

I remain, your interested reader, Maggie M . 

Manitowoc, Wis. 

Dear St Nicholas: I am a little boy, and will be twelve years 
old next Saturday. I live near the shore of Lake Michigan. There 
are high, sandy banks along the shore, and the sand-swallows build 
nests in them. Sometimes the crows rob the nests. 

Once I saw three crows catch a young swallow and tear it to 
pieces. The swallows were in great distress, but could not defend 
their young. Some blackbirds drove the crows away. 

I like the St. Nicholas very much. I shall be pleased if you 
print this. Yours truly, J. M. A . 

Boulder Valley, M. T. 
Dear St. Nichoias: I live up in the Rocky Mountains. This 
valley was named Boulder Valley because there is here, in great 
quantities, a kind of gray rock called boulders. 

I have two sisters and brother ; my brother and younger sister are 
twins, six years old, and my other sister is eight years old, and I am 
ten. We all enjoy your stories very much. 

With love and best wishes, Annie L. P 

Dear Old Saint: For you are truly a saint to the children, big 
and little. I suppose I must be called one of the big ones, as I am 
eighteen ; but I am just as fond of you as when I was eight. And 
such a help as you have been to me. For the past year, I have taken a 
good deal of interest in history and astronomy, and Proctor's articles 
on astronomy, and the pieces entitled " Boy Heroes of Crecy and 
Poitiers," " Windsor Castle," "Little Louis the Dauphin," "King 
Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table," and numerous other 
articles in your past pages, have been of great interest and help to 
me. We have all the volumes bound, from the very first, and their 
handsome scarlet bindings make a very pretty show in our book-case. 
I have a little niece who is two years old, and the first book she knew 

Pottsville, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We are two little girls of seven and eight 
years. We can not write, so Mamma is doing it for us. We love 
St. Nicholas very much. Last summer Papa bought us a dear 
little pony. Her name is " Gypsy." 

We like the " Brownies " very much, they are so cute. We have 
just come home from Europe. We were there all winter. We like 
London better than any of the other cities, because they speak English 
there. Once while we were in a bazar, we got lost from Mamma, 
and we could not find her again. A gentleman asked us what_ was 
the matter. We told him, and he wished to know where we lived. 
We did not know where the hotel was. The gentleman did not know 
what to do. Just then we heard some one ask, at the counter back 



of us, if they had seen two little girls straying around, and there was 
Mamma. This is the first letter we have ever written to our dear 
St. Nicholas, and we hope it will be printed, as it is a surprise for 
Papa. Your little readers, Lily and Violet De K 

St. Nicholas can not announce before next month the name of 
the winner of the ten-dollar prize for the best King's Move Puzzle. 
But meanwhile, we present herewith a King's Move Puzzle of one 
hundred and sixty-nine squares, sent to us by an English friend 
who signs herself" Monica." She says "the number of ways in 
which St. Nicholas may be spelled in it is over eight thousand." 
Can our mathematical young friends tell whether " Monica " is right ? 































































































































































Washington, D. C. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I thought perhaps some of your readers 
would bL- interested to see in the " Letter-box " an account of Gen- 
eral Sheridan's funeral. 

It would be more complete if I could give an nccount of the serv- 
ices in the church, but I was not one of the few who received tickets 
of admission. 

The day the funeral party arrived from Nonquitt, we went down 
to St. Matthew's Church to see the body taken into it. After some 
waiting, policemen cleared the side of the street in which the church 
stands, and soon the bell began to toll. A few mounted policemen 
rode ahead of the escort. Then came the cavalry, which drew up in 
line opposite the church. Then came the caisson, bearing the casket, 
covered with a flag, and upon the flag were the General's chapeau, 
sash, and sword. The caisson was surrounded by a guard, and fol- 
lowed by carriages containing those who had been at the station to 
receive the train. There was a very brief service, during which the 
cavalry remained drawn up outside. Then all but the guard left the 
church, and at the word of command, the cavalry rode away. The 
next day the church was open to the public. The galleries were hung 
with (lags, draped with black. At the altar a red light was cast 
over the flags hung there. At the back of the church some yellow 
cavalry-flags were draped. Fastened to the head of the cata'falque 
was the General's headquarters' flag, draped, of course. The cas- 
ket was beautiful in its simplicity. The flag, falling completely 
oyer one side, hid the heavy draping and gold handles which were 
visible on the other. On each side of the catafalque stood a small 
table, supporting draped candelabra, in which candles were burn- 
ing. An officer stood at the head of the catafalque, and another 
sat in one of the front pews. In another pew were two members of 
the " Loyal Legion." These constituted the guard of honor. 

On the morning of the funeral the streets around the church and 
along which the procession was to move were crowded, but the 
police kept the sidewalks all around the church clear. As I did not 
stand near the church, I did not hear the Marine Band play 
when the casket was borne from it. 

As usual, the mounted policemen rode at the head of the proces- 

sion ; then General Schofield, leading the cavalry. The artillery 
followed, and after it the bands, with the Marine Band in advance. 
Only the drum and fife were used. Next came the foot-artillery, 
marching with arms reversed. All the principal officers had knots 
of crape fastened to the hilts of their swords. Two large flags, with 
the names of many battles inscribed on them, were carried, heavily 
draped, in the procession. The carriages containing the clergy and 
pallbearers followed ; then the caisson, drawn by four horses, and 
surrounded by a guard. On it was the flag-covered casket, on which 
still lay the chapeau, sash, and sword of the dead hero. Following 
closely was the beautiful bay horse " Guy," saddled and bridled, 
with the General's boots fastened to the sides, toes pointing to the 
rear. In size the horse reminded me of the pictures of the horse on 
which Sheridan took his famous ride. He was led by a sergeant of 
cavalry. Poor fellow ! — unlike the other horses, impatient from long 
standing, and, in some cases, almost ungovernable — " Guy " hung 
his head and followed with slow steps, as if fully realizing that the 
master he loved would never mount him again. 

Carriages followed containing Mrs. Sheridan, the family, the 
President and Mrs. Cleveland, the Diplomatic Corps, the Commit- 
tees from Congress, friends of the family, some of the servants, and 
others. I did not go to Arlington, and know no more of the services 
there than the papers have told. 

I hope I have not made this too long to print, and that it will in- 
terest some of your readers 

Your admiring reader and friend, Isabella C 

Caldwell, N. J. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a girl thirteen years old. We live 
in the country, and have had many different pets. At one time we 
had a young alligator, but one day, being left too long in the sun, 
it died. 1 have a sister who, when she was little, said many funny 
things. On being told that roe was the eggs of shad, she asked if 
Annie (the cook) took the shells off before she cooked them. On 
going for the first time through a tunnel, in the train, she exclaimed 
to her nurse, " Oh ! I don't want to go to bed yet ! " This is the first 
year we have taken you, but we have read the bound volumes. 
I think you are just splendid, and enjny reading you very much 
Your faithful reader, Florence R . 

St. Albans, Vt. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am nearly twelve years old, and have 
taken you for five years. I enjoy you so much. I thought " Little 
Lord Fauntleroy " was just lovely. 

I own an engine and boiler which are quite powerful. It is a 
three-horse-power boiler, and instead of being heated by coal, it is 
heated by gas. The engine is a pony power and is very neat. I can 
run many machines with it. 

I also own an Indian pony which is not very beautiful, but his 
strength makes up for it. 

Your interested reader, Worth S . 

P. S. — We call him " Broncho." 

Lake Roland, Maryland. 

My Dear St. Nicholas: Although we have been taking you 
ever since '74, which I believe was your first year, I have never 
written to you before. I always enjoy reading the letters, from boys 
all over the world, in your " Letter-box." I am just "half-past" 
twelve now, so you see I am not the first subscriber from our family. 

I have been exploring the country all summer on my bicycle, and 
have enjoyed it, in spite of some of the " headers " I have had. I 
always enjoy the stories ir. your jolly magazine, and especially those 
about boys' outdoor sports. I often lend you to my friends who do 
not take you, and every fellow thinks you are the best magazine out. 
We play base-ball a great deal here, also tennis, lacrosse, polo, and 
cncket ; and in very warm weather we go swimming in a lovely 
fresh-water lake near by. I would rather play base-ball than any- 
thing else. I hope I shall always be young enough to read St. 
Nicholas, and I think I shall. With the hope that you will find 
room for this if it is worth printing, I am, 

Your interested reader, Eugene A . 

We present our thanks to the young friends whose names here 
follow, for pleasant letters received from them: 

Leah Tuttle, Gertie Dnud, Walter Naish, Elsie, Louis J. Hall and 
Thos. W. Hatch, A. Julia G., Millie and Sue, Josie Meighan, 
Georgiana M., Tessie and Winnie, P. W. Arnold, Norah Gilhooley, 
Frederika M., E. Gertie Smith, Lulu King Whitney, A. C L. and 
G. H., Hugh P. Tiemann, and Elisabeth D. Montague. 


Easy Beheadings, i. H-owl. 2. H-elm. 3. H-all. 4. H-old. 

5. H-ire. 6. H-ill. 7. H-art. 
Diamond in a Diamond, i. P. 2. His. 3. Horal. 4. Pirates. 

5. Sated. 6. Led. 7. S. 

Mythological Acrostic. All-Saints' eve. Cross-words: 1. Aso- 

pus. 2. Latona. 3. Lemnos. 4. Somnus. 5. Aurora. 6. Icarus. 

7. Nestor. 8. Thalia. 9. Scylla. 10. Europa. 11. Vulcan. 
12. Erebus. 

Diamonds. I. 1. B. 2. Dot. 3. Laura. 4. Darling. 5. Bou- 
langer. 6. Trinket. 7 Anger. 8. Get. 9. R. II. 1. C. 2. Low. 
3. Lamar. 4. Lamprel. 5. Companion. 6. Warning. 7. Reine. 

8. Log. 9. N. III. 1. M. 2. Gar. 3. Caged. 4. Garners. 5. Mag- 
nolias. 6. Reeling. 7. Drink. 8. Sag. 9. S. 

Cross-word Enigma. Coleridge. 

A Pyramid. From 1 to 7, tramper; 13 to 8, Harold; 14 to 9, 
ebony ; 15 to 10, risk ; 16 to 11, mee (k) ; 17 to 12, as; 18, L. 


Illustrated Acrostic. Autumn tints. Cross-words: 1. bAr- 
row. 2. sUnset. 3. sTring. 4. tUrkey. 5. iMages. 6. aNchor. 
7. sTatue. 8. fishes. 9. sNails. 10. sTudio. n. iSland. 

Rhomboids: I. Across: i. Pate. 2. Near. 3. Arid. 4. Lays. 
5. Leod. II. Across: 1. Bacca. 2. Balsa. 3. Mopus. 4. Gerah. 

Pi. October morning ! — how the sun 

Glitters on glowing shock and sheaf, 
On apple crisp with mellow gold, 

On wonder-painted leaf! 
October evening : — look, the moon, 
Like one in fairyland benighted ! 
Outdoors Jack Frost bites sharp ; within, 
Good, our first fire is lighted ! 
Double Diamond. Across: 1. H. 2. Bob. 3. Rogue. 4. Pu- 
laski. 5. Burke. 6. Sty. 7. H. 

To our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Maud E. Palmer — " Trix 
and Prim " — " Wakametoa " — Mary and Mabel Osgood — Jamie and Mamma — " Lehte " — Ada C. H. — Blanche and Fred — A. Fiske 
and Co. — Miss Flint — Mary Beard — Louise Ingham Adams — "Alpha Zeta" — Nellie L. Howes. 

Answers to Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Paul Reese, 12 — A. and S. Johnson, 2 — 
E. H. Rossiter, 2 — M. E. Dalgleish, 1 — Sue F., 1 — Marie and Aline, 1 — Yula Campbell, 1 — D. Bostwick and B. Southworth, 1 — 
"Edgemere," 12 — Marion, 3 — " Roseba," 3 — A. Schmidt, 1 — A. M., S. R., and A. L. Bingham, 8 — Ellershouse, 5 — Esther W. 
Ayres, 1 — "Professor and Co.," 5 — Ida Wallace, 1 — " May and 79," 12 — J. W. Frothingham, Jr., 1— J. R. Williamson, 1 — Irma 
B., 1 — "Patty-pan and Kettledrum," 7 — Etta Reilly, 2 — "Punch and Judy," 2 — D. N. S. Barney, 1 — Effie K. Talboys, 7 — 
" Grandma," 10 — " Infantry," :i — " Two Little Sisters," 2 — W. A. Jurgens, 1 — " The Currant Pickers," 12 — Mary L. Warren, 1 — 
" Monell," 1 — Clayton and Perry Risley, 4 — LilHe, 4 — Carolina M. G., 1— "Jo and I," 10 — Jennie, Mina, and Isabel, 7 — Ethel 
West, 1 — No Name, Westerly, 2 — " Hypatia," 1 — " Yodle Club," n — Mary W. Stone, 12. 


Three names are concealed in each sentence. 

1. A boy in a picture-shop opened a portfolio and came across an 
engraving of Lake Como or Erie — he did not know which — and 
bought it to adorn his mother's cottage, which he liked to decorate. 

2. Please tell Mr. Colby, rondeaux sung by Emil to-night; 
one coming from Cabul we received to-day. 

3. In Auburn some lady told me that she rid a number of 
houses of mice by using poison ; and that, she told Mr. Ladd, is only 
one of the many ways to get rid of the pests. 

4. It was to welcome the bald, rich man that a bee cherished a 
desire to walk on the poor man's head. 

5. The ancestral cot, that I was born in, is still standing. In front 
of the same, there is a superb urn Ettie bought to mark the grave of 
our pet dog, "Hero," extolling his many virtues and telling of our 
sorrow at his loss. 

6. When William on his travels sets out he, yearly, visits foreign 
lands, and states that in Morocco operas are presented on a grand 
scale, for he has seen a representation of Moscow perfectly faultless 
in all its details. stanhope. 


My primals name a king of Jerusalem, and my finals name a town 
of India. 

Cross-words: i. An ancient city in Assyria. 2. The sister of 
Ptolemy Philadelphus. 3. A daughter of Priam. 4. An ancient 
name for the Spanish town of Denia. 5. An artist made famous by 
his pictures of ideal rural life. 6. Without sense. 7. A famous city 
said to have been founded by Nimrod. 


Take one word from another, and leave a complete word. Exam- 
ple : Take to send forth, from a hermit, and leave before. Answer, 

1. Take one of a certain tribe of Indians from put into confusion by 
defeat, and leave a perch. 2. Take to disencumber from a spear 
with three prongs, and leave a pavilion. 3. Take the Roman divin- 
ity of plenty, who was the wife of Saturn, from a disease, and leave 
arid. 4. Take quick from to secure, and leave to make well. 

5. Take a snake-like fish from navigating, and leave a sovereign. 

6. Take to perform from custom, and leave estimation. 7. Take a 
sailor from setting out, and leave to pain acutely. 8. Take a fluid 
from conniving, and leave the side of an army. 9. Take the sum- 

mit from paused, and leave hastened. 10. Take a beverage from 
pilfering, and leave to hurl. 

All of the words removed consist of the same number of letters. 
When placed one below the other, the central row will spell the name 
of a famous battle fought on November 7, 181 1. F. s. f. 


I. Upper Diamond: i. In Carthage. 2. Part. of the foot. 3. 
Part of a tree. 4. Part of a store. 5. Part of a house. 6. An ivory 
lever. 7. In Carthage. 

II. Lower Diamond: i. In Carthage. 2. A step. 3. The 
Ottoman empire. 4. Hurting. 5. To pain acutely. 6. A geo- 
graphical abbreviation. 7. In Carthage. 

III. Left-hand Diamond: i. In Carthage. 2. Induced. 
3. Delicate fabrics. 4. Acknowledgment of payment. 5. Divinity. 
6. To discern. 7. In Carthage. 

IV. Right-hand Diamond: i. In Carthage. 2. A bird. 3. 
The person to whom a gift is made. 4. Depending. 5. Super- 
natural. 6. Conclusion. 7. In Carthage. 

Central letter (indicated by a star), in Carthage. From 1 to 2, 
spell two words ; from 3 to 4 spell a single word, meaning destroying 
the effect of a charm upon. dyke clements. 




The central letters, reading downward, spell one of the muses. 

Cross-words (of equal length) : i. One of the sons of Coelus and 
Terra, 2. The wife of Alcinous. 3. The goddess of the earth. 
4. The god of love. 5. The goddess of the hearth. 6. A king of 
Phrygia. 7. The father of Faunus. S. The father of Eteoclus. 
9. The son of Andramon. 10. The personification of the earth. 
11. The goddess of peace. "little one." 


versity, and make garments for women and to garrison. 7. Separate 
makes more close, and make tense and an old wurd meaning exist- 
ence. 8. Separate a bar of wood used with the hand as a lever, and 
make a laborer and an ear of corn. 9. Separate turned away, and 
make to assert and to spread new hay. 10 Separate eminent, and 
make a word that expresses denial and a masculine nickname, 
n. Separate money paid for the use of a quay, and make an index 
and maturity. 12. Separate several, and make a luminary and 

The initials of the first row of words (after they have been sepa- 
rated) spell what all should be doing on Thanksgiving Day; the 
initials of the second row of words spell two words which name a 
where Thanksgiving Day is most keenly enjoyed. 



From i tn 2, exhibits ; from 1 to 3, flattery ; from 2 to 3, 
one of an organized body of combatants ; from 4 to 5, con- 
gealed ; from 4 to 6, hugs ; from 5 to 6, a French word mean- 
ing acts of civility. 



Take the smallest article that any one can find; 

Build a short extension neatly on behind ; 

Take the little nickname, reverse it by a sea, 

Ten times ten thousand, or a varnish it will be. 

Turn about, add nothing; the number, too, will turn 

Into jetty darkness which will brightly bum. 

Cleave this through the middle, thrust a letter in, 

With this work of millions islands may begin- 

Add another vowel, stir the mixture well, 

Deep, prophetic sayings this will surely tell ; 

But if you should find it following the sea 

On the waves a shallop goes dancing airily ; 

Add a single article, precisely like the first, 

To show a pretty feat which knights have oft rehearsed. 


In the accompanying illustration each of the numbered objects 
may be described by a word of five letters. When these are rightly 
guessed and placed one below the other, the zigzag, beginning at 
the upper left-hand corner, will spell the name of a famous American 
artist, sometimes called the "American Titian," who graduated 
from Harvard College in 1800. 


On thramw, no fresenchules, on thalhufle aese — * 

No tobfaclemor lefe ni yan mebrem — 
On heads, no snihe, on busterflite, no sebe, 
On fritsu, no slewfor, on veleas, no dribs, 


Example: Separate hard, and make a masculine name and ari 
insect. Answer, Adam-ant. 

1. Separate a gas-meter, and make a deep cut and more ancient. 
2. Separate one who holds the doctrine of idealism, and make a 
notion and a catalogue. 3. Separate a farewell, and make low 
ground and language. 4. Separate a tavern-keeper, and make a 
hotel and suoporter. 5. Separate an aged warrior and counselor 
mentioned by Homer, and make a snug abode and a connective that 
marks an alternative. 6. Separate a member of an English uni- 

From i to 2, merciful; from 3 to 4, impartial ; from 1 to 3, covered 
with wax ; from 3 to 2, to lament ; from 1 to 4, to compare critically ; 
from 4 to 2, to rival. 

Enclosed Diamond: i, In pine-apple ; 2, a chart; 3, a builder in 
stone or brick; 4, emotion; 5, equilibrium; 6, a scriptural name; 
7, in pine-apple. " john 1'Eervbingle." 


I. 1. Gems. 2. An oppressor, 
name. 5. To encircle. 6. Horses. 

A fruit. 4. A girl's nick- 

II. 1. Irritates. 2. To give way. 3. A Peruvian animal. 4. On 
every supper-table. 5. Once more. 6. Ranks. 







Vol. XVI. 

DECEMBER, 1888. 

No. 2. 

Copyright, 1888, by The Centurv Co. All rights reserved. 


By Helen Gray Cone. 

Our Madge, in growing tall and wise, 
Has reached that most befogged of tracts, 

The Land of Half-Belief, that lies 
Between the Fairies and the Facts. 

Oh, would he come, the jolly Saint 
Whom everybody talked about ? 

It may be so — and yet, it may n't ; 
If I should watch, I might find out ! ' 

Her little heart 's a crowded nest 
Of faiths and fancies, dear and shy ; 

The dearer, since she somehow guessed 
They 'd flutter from her by and by. 

Her doubts are pains, yet pleasures, too, 
With which her timid thoughts will play ; 

How sad the chill, " It may n't be true" — 
How sweet the thrill, " But, then, it may ! " 

On Christmas Eve she long had lain 
With sleepless eyes, like owlet's bright ; 

She rose, and rubbed the frosted pane, 
And stared into the starry night. 

She turned ; her pulses wildly beat ; 

She 'd like to spy — but should she dare ? 
Yes ! Pat, pat, pat, with stealthy feet 

She passed adown the winding stair. 

The great hearth glowed ; the grave old cat, 
With fixed, expanded, emerald eyes, 

Erect, before the chimney sat; 

He seemed to wear a waiting guise. 

The andirons shone ; the clock ticked on ; 
Each moment made her more afraid. 
" Oh, if he comes, I '11 wish I 'd gone — 
But if I go, I Ml wish I 'd staid ! 

She saw the moon laugh round and clear 
From smoky wreaths of cloud, and throw, 

In shapes like branching horns of deer, 
The sharp tree-shadows on the snow. 

Perhaps he is n't real at all — 

But — if he is — perhaps he '11 mind ! : 
A sudden soot-flake chanced to fall — 

She fled, and never looked behind ! 

She throbbed with fright, she flushed with shame, 
Her pillowed head she closely hid ; 

She said, " I don't believe he came ! " 

She sighed, " Oh, dear — suppose he did ! " 



The win- 
ter in which 
the events 
of this his- 
tory occurred 
opened very 
The cold was 
not intense, 
nor the snows 
deep, but it was a sloppy, sleety, slippery Decem- 
ber in which one could expect neither good ice nor 
good sleighing. 

The probabilities of an unseasonable Christmas 
were very much discussed by the members of a 
family named Kinton, who lived in a country 
house about thirty miles from New York. Mrs. 
Kinton was a widow, and her family was made up 
of herself and three daughters, whose ages ranged 
from seventeen to six. Her brother, Mr. Rodney 
Carr, was very often with them, but his presence 
was not at all to be depended upon. 

The two older girls, Elinor and Maud, were 
generally ready to enjoy Christmas in any weather 
and in any place ; but this year the prospect of a 
Christmas at home appeared extremely distasteful 
to them on account of a certain other prospect that 
had been held out to them by their uncle Rodney. 
This uncle was a generous man, and always glad 
to promote the pleasure of his nieces ; and early 
in this winter he had made them a half-prom- 
ise of something which Mrs. Kinton thought he 
should have said nothing about until he had 
felt himself able to make a whole promise. He 
had gone to California upon business ; and, before 
starting, had told Elinor and Maud that if a certain 
enterprise proved successful, he would make them 
a Christmas present of a trip to the Bermudas. 
This unusual gift had been suggested to him by 
the fact that the most intimate friends of Elinor 
and Maud, the two Sanderson girls, who spent 
their winters in New York, were going with their 
mother to the Bermudas for their Christmas holi- 
days ; and Mrs. Sanderson had told him that she 
would be very glad if his nieces could go with them. 

0_ By Frank R. Stockton. 

The state of mind of the Kinton girls can easily 
be imagined. A Christmas in the Bermudas — two 
weeks of balmy air, warm sunshine, oranges, ba- 
nanas, pine-apples, roses in the open air ! It made 
them wild to talk about it ! 

Christmas was coming nearer and nearer when 
a letter was received from Uncle Rodney ; and he, 
it appeared, was also coming nearer and nearer. 
He was on his way from California ; and, to the 
surprise of the Kinton family, he was also on his 
way to England. The business which took him 
there, he wrote, was pressing; and as he wished 
to catch a certain steamer, it would be impossible 
for him to stop to see his relatives. He had not 
yet decided the important question of a trip to the 
Bermudas ; but on the way he would make some 
calculations, and see whether or not he would be 
able to give them this pleasure, and as he would 
pass through Afton, their railroad station, where 
the train stopped for a few minutes, he would send 
them his decision, by telephone. 

The Kinton house, like several other residences 
in the neighborhood, was connected with the rail- 
road station, about four miles distant, by a tele- 
phone wire ; and communication in this way was 
often very useful, especially in bad weather. 

At first the girls declared that they would wait 
for no telephone, but would go to the station and 
see Uncle Rodney, if it were only for a minute ; 
but on consulting a time-table of the railroad they 
found that the train on which their uncle would 
travel would reach Afton very early in the morn- 
ing ; and Mrs. Kinton put a veto upon the propo- 
sition to take the long drive at such an unseasonable 
hour. Consequently there was nothing to do but 
to wait for the day on which Uncle Rodney had 
said he would pass through Afton and be ready at 
the telephone at the proper time. 

On the day after the receipt of this letter there 
came to the Kinton house a pleasant, little, mid- 
dle-aged gentleman, who received a hearty wel- 
come from every member of the family. This was 
Professor Cupper, an old friend and a man of 
science. It was his custom, whenever he felt like 
it, to spend a few days with the Kintons. Seasons 




and weather made no difference to him. Friends 
were friends at any time of the year ; and weather 
which might be bad for ordinary purposes was 
often very suitable for scientific investigations. 

Of course the Professor was soon made ac- 
quainted with the exciting state of affairs, in which 
he immediately took an animated interest. He 
well knew what winter-time was in the Bermudas. 
He knew how his dear young friends would enjoy 
Christmas among the roses and the palmettoes ; 
and he talked so enthusiastically about the land 
of flowers that the girls were filled with a wilder 
impatience ; and even their mother admitted that 
she was beginning to be nervously anxious to know 
what Rodney would say. If the girls were to be in 
the Bermudas before Christmas it was necessary to 
know the fact soon, for certain preparations would 
have to be made. If Rodney were not such a 
queer sort of fellow, she said, he would have made 
up his mind days ago, and would have written or 
telegraphed his decision. But this sort of touch- 
and-go communication suited his fancies exactly. 

The eventful morning arrived. Before it was 
yet light the two girls were up, dressed, and at the 
telephone. They had no reason to expect the 
message so soon; but the train might be ahead 
of time, and Uncle Rodney might have but half a 
minute in which to say what he had to tell them. 
On no account must the telephone bell ring with- 
out some one being there to give an instant re- 

Consequently the Kinton girls, even little Ruth, 
were at the instrument, where Professor Cupper 
speedily made his appearance ; and not long after- 
ward Mrs. Kinton joined the expectant group. 

The moment arrived at which the message 
could reasonably be expected. All were in a 
tingle ! The moment passed ; it became long 
passed. The girls looked aghast at each other ! 
What had happened? Even the ruddy face of 
the Professor seemed to pale a little. He stepped 
to the instrument and sounded the signal. No 
answer came. He sounded again and again, with 
like result. For ten or fifteen minutes he called 
and rang without response. 

"What can possibly be the matter?" cried 
Elinor. " Is everybody dead or asleep at the 
station ? " 

"Not likely," said the Professor. "But it is 
likely that your wire is broken." 

At this announcement the girls broke into lam- 
entations. Uncle Rodney must have arrived and 
departed, and the words which he had undoubt- 
edly spoken into the telephone at the station had 
been lost ! Now, how could they know what their 
uncle had decided upon ? How could they know 
whether he intended them to go to the Bermudas or 

not ? He was to sail from New York that day, but 
he had not informed them what steamer he intended 
to take, and they did not know where to send a 
telegram. He had asked them to write to him in 
the care of a banker in London ; but if they were 
to send a letter after him it would be so long be- 
fore they could get an answer to it! Even a mes- 
sage by cable would not be much better, for he 
would not receive it long before he would receive 
a letter. There was absolutely nothing which they 
could do. 

This mournful conclusion weighed heavily upon 
the whole family. Even little Ruth, who did not 
exactly understand the state of affairs, looked as if 
she were about to cry. 

" I should have liked it better," exclaimed 
Maud, "if Uncle Rodney had told us we could not 
go; but to hear, after the holidays are over, that 
we might have gone, would be simply too hard to 

"As soon as I have had some breakfast," said 
the Professor, " I will go to the station — if Mrs. 
Kinton will give me a conveyance — and I will find 
out what has happened." 

" And we will go with you ! " cried Elinor and 

After a hasty breakfast the Professor and the two 
girls set out in a sleigh for Afton. The snow was 
soft and not very deep, and the roadway beneath 
was rough ; but notwithstanding the bumps and 
jolts, and the occasional blood-curdling gratings 
of the runners upon bare places, the impatient 
girls urged George, the driver, to keep his horses 
on their fastest trot. 

When they were about half-way to the station, 
the Professor cried out : 

" Hi ! there it is ! The line is broken ! " 

All looked around, and could see plainly enough 
that the wire had parted near one of the poles, 
and that part of it was resting on the ground. But 
it was of no use to stop ; they were in a hurry to 
reach Afton to learn if Uncle Rodney had been 
there, and if he had left a message. 

When they reached the railroad station they 
found that Mr. Carr had arrived on time ; that he 
had telephoned to his sister's house ; and that he 
had gone. The station-master told them that 
he had been outside, and had not heard what Mr. 
Carr had said, but that he thought it probable, 
since he had a very short time in which to say 
anything, that he had rung the bell, and without 
waiting for an answering ring, had delivered his 

"That is very likely," said the Professor, "for 
Mr. Carr knew that his nieces were expecting to 
hear from him at the moment the train arrived 
here, and that they would, therefore, be ready at 




their telephone. But as the line was broken, of 
course the message never reached them." 

Very much dispirited, the little party drove 
home. The girls had been buoying themselves 
up with the hope that Uncle Rodney knew that 
the wire was broken, and had left a message for 
them at the station ; but, instead of this, he had 
gone away in the belief that he had communicated 
with them, and would, therefore, do no more. 
Now they could not expect to hear from him until 
he reached England, and it would then be too late. 
The kindly nature of the Professor was affected by 
this disappointment of his young friends ; and the 
thought came to him that had he been rich enough 
he would, himself, have made them a present of a 
trip to the Bermudas. Even George, the driver, 
who knew all about the affair and was deeply inter- 
ested in it, wore a doleful face. 

They drove slowly homeward, and when they 
reached the place where the wire had been broken, 
the Professor asked George to stop, and he got out 
to take a look into the condition of affairs. There 
was no real need that he should do this, for of 
course he could not repair the damage, and the 
station-master had promised to attend to that. But 
he had an investigating mind and he wished to find 
out just how the accident had happened. 

It was easy enough to see how the wire had been 
broken. A tall tree stood near the spot, and from 
this a heavy dead limb had fallen which must have 
struck the wire — this had been broken off close 
to one of the poles, and from the supporting in- 
sulator near the top of the pole an end of the 
wire, an inch or two in length, projected. From 
looking up at the damaged wire the Professor 
glanced down the pole, and when his eyes rested 
upon the ground he saw there, lying on the frozen 
crust of the snow, a little dead bird, its wings partly 

The Professor stepped quickly to the pole, and, 
stooping, regarded the bird. Then he stood up, 
stepped back a little and looked up at the broken 
wire. After which he advanced toward the bird, 
and looked down at it. From these observations 
he was called away by the girls, who wished to 
know what he was looking at. 

Without answering, the Professor carefully picked 
up the bird, and returned to the sleigh. 

" It is a poor little dead bird ! " exclaimed Maud; 
" a dead, frozen bird ! " 

" Yes," said the Professor, " that is what it is." 
And, resuming his seat, they moved on. 

For the rest of the way the Professor did not 
talk much ; and when they reached the house, 
without taking off his hat, coat or overshoes, he sat 
down on a chair in the hall and steadfastly re- 
garded the bird which lay in his outspread hands. 

Mrs. Kinton, with Ruth, came hurrying down- 
stairs. " Did you discover anything? " she asked. 

Maud was about to speak when the Professor 
interrupted. " Yes," he said, delivering his words 
slowly, and with earnestness, "I think I have dis- 
covered something. I have reason to believe that 
the message sent by Rodney Carr is in this bird." 

Exclamations of amazement burst from all his 
hearers. "What do you mean?" cried Mrs. 

" I will tell you," said the Professor. And they 
all gathered around him, gazing with astonished 
eyes at the bird which he held. "By a falling 
limb," he said, "your telephone wire was broken 
close to the glass insulator on one of the poles, and 
on the side of the pole nearest this house. At the 
bottom of the pole directly under the fracture I 
found this dead bird. Now my theory is this. 
The limb probably fell during the high wind of 
last night. The bird, taking an early morning 
flight, alighted on the broken end of the wire which 
projected a little from the pole after the manner 
of a twig. While settling on this slight perch and 
probably fluttering its wings as it took its position, 
Mr. Carr sent his message along the wire. 

' ' If the end had merely projected into the air, there 
would have been no circuit, and no message: but 
the bird's little feet were on the wire, one of his flut- 
tering wings probably touched the pole or the 
block, a connection with the earth was made, and 
the message passed into the bird. The little creat- 
ure was instantly killed, and dropped to the ground, 
its wings still outspread." 

" Do you mean," cried Elinor, "that you be- 
lieve Uncle Rodney's message is now in that 
bird ? " 

" Yes," said the Professor, his eyes sparkling as 
he spoke, " I believe, or, at least, I strongly con- 
jecture that your uncle's message is now in that 
curious complication of electric threads which is 
diffused through the body of a bird, as it is through 
that of a man, and which is known as the nervous 

Mrs. Kinton and her eldest daughter were too 
surprised to say a word, but Maud exclaimed: 

"A dead bird with a message in his nervous 
system is of no good to anybody ! Oh, you poor 
little thing, not only dead but frozen, if you could 
but wake up and tell us whether Uncle Rodney 
said we were to go to the Bermudas or not to go, 
you would be the dearest and best bird in the 

" I have been considering this matter very ear- 
nestly," said Professor Cupper, " and I am going to 
try to get that message out of the bird. If its nerv- 
ous system is charged with the modulated electric 
current produced by your uncle's words, I do not 




see why those modulations should not be trans- 
ferred to a delicate electrical machine, which should 
record or repeat the message, faintly perhaps, but 
with force enough for us to determine its purport." 

" If you can do that," said Elinor, " it will be a 
miracle ! " 

Mrs. Kinton's mind was in a state of bewilder- 
ment. She could not readily put full faith in what 
the Professor had said, and yet science had done 
so many wonderful things, and the Professor him- 
self had done so many wonderful things, that she 

uncle's message the moment it was reproduced, 
if, indeed, he should be able to reproduce it at all. 
How this message was to be made known, 
whether by means of a phonograph, or a grapho- 
phone, or some other electric appliance, the Pro- 
fessor did not say. He was going to consult with 
some scientific brethren, and they would help him 
to determine what sort of experiments ought to be 
tried. He would bring back with him the neces- 
sary instruments, and perhaps also one or more 
of his learned friends, for this was a matter in 



§ mm 

could not bring herself to entirely doubt him; so 
she gave up all attempts to comprehend the mat- 
ter, and went away to attend to her household 
duties. At any rate, his efforts to get a telephone 
message out of a bird could hurt nobody, and if he 
succeeded in interesting and diverting her daugh- 
ters it would be a positive benefit. 

The girls plied the Professor with questions, and 
the more he discussed the subject the more firmly 
he became persuaded that it would be a crime 
against science to allow this great and unique 
opportunity to pass unimproved. 

He did not take off his hat and coat at all ; but, 
calling to Mrs. Kinton, he earnestly requested her 
to send him to the station in time to take the next 
train to New York. There he would procure the 
electrical appliances which he needed, and return 
to her house in the evening, or, at the latest, the 
next morning. 

Of course the Professor went to New York, for 
everybody could see that he must not be thwarted 
in this most important investigation. He would 
have taken the bird with him, to try his experi- 
ments on it in the city ; but apart from the fear 
that the electrical conditions of the little thing's 
nervous system might be disturbed by the journey, 
he was determined that the girls should hear their 


which he was sure all scientific minds would be 

The bird whose nervous system, according to 
Professor Cupper's belief, was charged with the 
electric message in which Elinor and Maud took 
so deep an interest, was left with these two girls 
by the professor, with injunctions to take the best 
of care of it. Accordingly they carried it into an 
unused upper room, and there it was gently placed 
upon a small table ; and when they went out they 
carefully closed the door, in order that no cat or 
other enemy should disturb or injure what Maud 




called " the ornithological depository of their 

The direct interest of little Ruth in this affair 


was not great, for there was no idea of her going to 
the Bermudas. But she had heard what had been 
said about this mysterious bird, and although she 
did not understand it, that did not at all interfere 
with her curiosity and desire to have an undis- 
turbed look at the little creature which had been 
choked to death by a message from her uncle 
Rodney, who she thought should not have spoken 

so loud if there was any danger of a little bird be- 
ing at the other end of the wire. 

She went upstairs and entered the room, and as 
she was a careful little 
girl, she shut the door 
behind her. Then she 
drew a chair up to the 
table, and, leaning upon 
it, earnestly regarded the 
bird. So far as she could 
see, there was nothing 
the matter with it except 
that it was dead ; and she 
knew very well that in 
various ways and man- 
ners a great many birds 
do become dead. There 
seemed to her nothing 
very peculiar in the condi- 
tion of this one. 

Presently, however, 
she observed something 
which did seem to her to 
be peculiar. She drew 
back from the table, let 
her hands fall in her lap, 
and a thoughtful expres- 
sion came into her face. 

"Do dead birds wink ? " 
she softly said to herself. 
It seemed as if this 
were really the case, for 
while she spoke one eye 
of the bird was, for 
the second time, slowly 
opened and quickly shut. 
While she was ponder- 
ing upon this strange oc- 
currence a momentary 
tremor passed through 
the body of the bird. It 
was very slight, but her 
young eyes were sharp. 

"It is shivering," she 
said. "Poor thing! It 
must be cold ! " 

She glanced at the 
window and saw that one 
of the upper sashes had 
been lowered. This had been done by her sisters, 
who had thought the room too warm. She went 
to the window and found that, even standing on 
a chair, she could not push up the sash. 

Then another idea entered her mind. She went 
to her own little room, which was on the same 
floor, and brought back with her her doll's bed 
and bedstead. She knew perfectly well what a. 


8 9 

fond mother should do to warm a doll who was 
too cold. She put the bedstead on the floor, away 
from the window ; then she took off the two little 
blankets, and, opening the register, laid them 
upon it. When they were thoroughly warmed, 
she took them to the bed, and, having arranged 
everything very neatly, she went to the table, ten- 
derly picked up the poor, cold little bird, and car- 
rying it to the bed, snugly tucked it in between 
the blankets. 

Ruth now seated herself upon the floor near by 
to watch over her little charge, and very soon she 
saw a decided shaking between the blankets. 

"It keeps on being cold," she said. And tak- 
ing up a little down quilt which was used by her 
doll only in very cold weather, she placed that over 
the bird. 

This additional covering, however, did not seem 
to have any effect in quieting the little creature. 
From shaking, it began to struggle. In a few mo- 
ments one wing was almost entirely out from under 
the covering and exposed to the air ; and while 
Ruth was endeavoring to put back this wing the 
other one came out, and then one leg. When 
she felt the sharp little claws on her hand, she 
was startled, although they did not hurt her, and 
involuntarily drew back. In a moment the bird 
wriggled itself out from between the blankets. 
Then it hopped into the middle of the bed ; and 
as Ruth put out her hand to catch it, it spread 
its wings and flew to the back of a chair. 

Ruth started to her feet, and as she did so the 
bird flew from the chair and began circling 
around and around the room. The little girl did 
not know what to do. She felt that the bird 
ought to be caught, or that somebody ought to 
be called ; but before she had decided upon any 
further action the bird perceived the open win- 
dow, and, darting through it, was lost to her view. 

Tears now came into the eyes of the little girl, 
and slowly she went downstairs and told what 
had happened. Elinor and Maud were shocked 
and distressed, and even their mother was truly 
grieved. No matter how things resulted, it would 
be a great disappointment to the Professor not 
to be able to try his experiments. Ruth was 
too young to be blamed very much for doing 
what she thought was an act of kindness, but 
the girls found great fault with themselves for 
not having locked the door of the room. 

"As it was likely that the bird was merely 
stunned by the electric current, and frozen stiff 
as it lay upon the snow," said Elinor, "it might 
have been easier for the Professor to get at the 
message than if'it were really dead. A live nerv- 
ous system, I should think, would be more likely 
to retain an electrical impression than a dead one." 

"Don't talk that way," cried Maud, '-'or you 
will have us all wild to go out and catch that bird. 
It would be the worst kind of a wild-goose chase, 
for a bird with a message in him looks just like 
any other; and even if we had tied a rag to its 
leg or put a mark on it I think that by the time it 
had been chased from field to forest, and had had 
stones hurled at it and nets thrown over it, its 
electrical conditions would have been a good deal 
disturbed. No ! We may as well drop this bird 
of Fate as it has dropped us. I don't believe the 
message went into him anyway. It simply shot 
out into the air, and we shall never know what it 
was until Uncle Rodney reaches England and 
writes or telegraphs back. Then, of course, it 
will be too late, and we shall have to be content 
to wait for the Bermudas until some other winter." 

" One thing must be done instantly," said Mrs. 
Kinton. " We must telegraph to Professor Cup- 
per what has happened. It would be very unkind 
to let him put himself to any further trouble now 
that the bird is gone and there is nothing for 
himself or his friends to experiment upon." 


In twenty minutes George was riding to the sta- 
tion with a message which briefly stated that the 
bird of hope had revived and flown away. 



Elinor and Maud went early to bed that night. 
They had a feeling that this world was a very tire- 
some place, and there was nothing in it worth 
sitting up for. But the next morning's mail brought 
a letter from Professor Cupper which made differ- 
ent beings of them. 

The letter had been written late the night be- 
fore, and was brief and hurried, as the Professor 
wished to get it into the post-office before the last 
mail closed. In it he said that he had been greatly 
disappointed and grieved by the news that it was 
impossible for him to proceed with the most inter- 
esting experiment of his life. That was over and 
done with, but he had been earnestly pondering 
upon the subject, and had come to the conclusion, 
for reasons which he would afterward explain, that 
the message was a favorable one, and that Mr. 
Carr had told his nieces that they were to go to 
the Bermudas. The Professor had decided to 
remain in New York for a few days, but would 
then return and finish his visit ; and would give in 
full his grounds for the conviction that the Christ- 
mas present which the girls so earnestly desired 
had been sent to them. 

"I believe it!" cried Elinor. "It is certain 
that Uncle Rodney sent us a message, and if Pro- 
fessor Cupper, who knows all about these things, 
says it was the right message, I see no reason to 
doubt it." 

" I don't doubt it," said Maud. " I believe any 
other kind of a message would have killed that bird 
as dead as a door nail." 

At first Mrs. Kinton felt perplexed, but as she 
so well understood her brother's generous disposi- 
tion, and had such confidence in Professor Cupper's 
scientific ability, she did not feel warranted in 
opposing the conviction of the Professor and the 
desires of her daughters ; and preparations for the 
trip to the Bermudas were immediately commenced. 
Of course her brother had sent no money, but it 
had been arranged how his sister could draw the 
money on his account. 

Fingers now began to fly, and Elinor and Maud 
felt that the world offered many reasons why they 
should sit up late. In two days they were in New 
York, and on the day afterward, with their friends, 
they sailed for the Bermudas. 

Shortly after their departure the Professor ar- 
rived at Mrs. Kinton's house, and, for the first time 
in his life, was delighted to find that his young 
friends were not there. He lost no time in giving 
Mrs. Kinton his grounds for the opinion he had 
sent her. 

" On some accounts," he said, " it is a pity the 
bird escaped ; but, after all, this matters little, for, 
alive, it could have been of no use to me. Its 

emotions on reviving in a state of captivity would 
probably have obliterated, in its nervous system, 
all electric impressions. Having, therefore, noth- 
ing positive on which to base my judgment, I 
was obliged to consider the subject with reference 
to probabilities. The bird was not killed by the 
electric current ; it was merely stunned, and after- 
ward stiffened by lying upon the snow. I there- 
fore infer that the message sent was a very brief 
one; and, being brief, I infer that it was favor- 
able. Your brother has too kind a heart to say to 
the girls: "No"; or, "You can not go." No 
matter how limited his time, he would have man- 
aged to say something in the way of explanation 
and palliation. On the other hand: "Yes," or, 
" Go and be happy," would be all-sufficient. Such 
a message might merely stun a bird; a longer one 
might kill it." 

" Maud said something of that kind," remarked 
Mrs. Kinton. 

" Maud is a very intelligent girl," said the Pro- 
fessor, " and it will not surprise me if she ulti- 
mately engages in scientific pursuits. And now, 
madam," he continued, "how grateful should we 
be to science ! If we had not been able to induce, 
even inferentially, through the medium of an or- 
dinary bird, the purport of your brother's message, 
we should have known nothing of his desires and 

"No," said Mrs. Kinton, smiling, "nothing!" 

The girls spent a royal two weeks in the Bermu- 
das, and shortly after their return there came a letter 
from their uncle Rodney in answer to one in which 
their mother had given him a full account of the 
state of affairs. In this letter Mr. Carr wrote : 

" As well as I can recollect them, I telephoned to you these 
words, ' Very sorry, but I can't send the girls this year. Better 
luck next Christmas ! All well ? ' But I could not wait for an an- 
swer to this question, for the whistle sounded, and I was obliged to 
run for the train. It was much against my will that I sent this mes- 
sage. Affairs had gone badly with me in California : and I found, 
too, that if I did not very speedily show myself in England I should 
have heavy losses. I earnestly considered the question on my way 
toward Afton, but finally decided that under the circumstances I 
could not afford to give the girls that Bermuda trip. But when I 
reached England I found my affairs in a great deal better shape than 
I had any reason to expect. By the time I got down to London, 
and found your letter, I was already considering what I should do 
to compensate the girls for the loss of their semi-tropical Christmas ; 
for I knew it was then too late for them to go south w-ilh the San- 
dersons. So when I learned that my message had not been re- 
ceived, and the girls had gone to the Bermudas, I was delighted. 
In spite of your explanations, I must admit that I do not comprehend 
how that bird and Professor Cupper managed the matter : but no- 
body can be happier than I am that they managed it so well. 

Maud sprang to her feet, one hand in the air: 
" How grateful we should be," she cried, "for 
the blessings of science ! " 


By Mary Hartwell Catherwood. 

Dedication. — This story is dedicated to that happy young girl, Jean Trego, always tenderly kind to old people, 
and always a lover of the outdoor world. 

Chapter I. 


The river Ottawa reflected such a sunset as 
one sees only in northern latitudes after the air has 
been cleared by thunder-storms. Its purple-brown 
water, which has gained for it the name of royal 
river, spread into far-off bays, the slate rock of its 
bed rising here almost to the surface, and there 
lying submerged by the channel's full flood. Can- 
ada is a country of river-like lakes and lake-like 

A long drive of logs floated in the current, — the 
last drive of the season, for it was very late in 
May. Three weeks before, the river had been 
floored with unsawed timber, and from shore to 

shore had stretched booms, river paral- 
lels outlining the zones of ownership. At 
every boom some lumber-dealer's logs, 
marked with his mark, had to be sorted out 
and left before the drive could go on. Log 
cribs filled with stones were built across the 
river to support the strength of that chain of 
logs called the boom. 

Bruno-Morel and his companions followed their 
drive in the flat-bottomed, sharp-pointed boat 
which lumbermen use. He felt glad the driving 
was so nearly done ; for he could see the parlia- 
ment buildings of Ottawa town stand out on their 
headland like a vision of palaces in the clouds. 
Distantly, he could see the French suburb, Hull, 
the lumber wharves, and betwixt them and him a 
tossing up of the river where Chaudiere Falls make 
their tumult. The logs he was tending must go 
down a slide, or large descending flume, apart 
from boiling rapids and cascade. 

Bruno- Morel looked eagerly to the slide; he 
would ride down it for the delight of being 
splashed. There were so many things he liked 
in his work. The winter woods life, the ringing 
of axes on resonant air, the swish of logs hauled 
through snow — Bruno was one of the teamsters; 
the log-house at night with its double row of 
bunks around two walls and its range of benches 
below them, its central earthen hearth built 
directly under a square hole in the roof and built 

9 2 




above the height of a man's knees, glowing with 
coals like a furnace. There was always a swing- 
ing crane fixed to this flueless fireplace, and on the 
crane hung a kettle full of strong tea to which the 
men helped themselves as often as they pleased. 

Bruno was sixteen years old, and the outdoor 
life had knit closer his wiry muscles and warmly 
tinted his dark French skin. He not only felt able 
to grapple with destiny, but he looked on destiny 
itself as a protecting saint. The people of his race 
live with little care and less toil. They sun them- 
selves happily ; the men smoke ; the women knit 
stockings ; it is always afternoon of a good day to 
the French-Canadian. He seldom cares to be 
rich ; his customs have long been established. He 
inherits his strip of land ; or if he fails to inherit, 
there is always something to do ; a man is foolish 
to break his neck hurrying. It did not trouble 
Bruno-Morel that he and twenty of his brothers 
and sisters had been cast out from their native 
Chaudiere * valley, because the father picked on 
Jules to succeed to the land. It had been the talk 
of the family that Jules was to get the land, years 
before his father turned fifty. 

Oh, but the Chaudiere valley was lovely when 
the sun shone across it after rain ! There you 
might see each side of the transparent river — the 
rock-combed river — such green strips of farms as 
Bruno believed could be found nowhere else in 
Canada. And if not in Canada, where in the 
world ? 

* Chaudiere, or caldron, is a name given not only to a lovely foami 

rapids and falls th 

He sometimes wondered if he could lay by work 
at fifty, as fathers in that valley did, and sit under 
jutting eaves, or by winter fire, to smoke his pipe 
the rest of his days. He scarcely went so far as to 
think that the lengthy age a French-Canadian 
generally enjoyed might be put to better use. The 
customs of his fathers were good enough. 

An Americanized Frenchman had spent the 
winter in the logging camp, and was now one of 
Bruno's two companions in the boat tending this 
last drive of logs. He had lived over larger sur- 
faces of the globe than Bruno could even imagine,, 
and liked to be called the Wanderer by his wood- 
mates. His dialect was so much worse than ordi- 
nary Canadian-French that once, when testifying, 
in court, the judge begged him to leave off Eng- 
lish and speak French ; which he did, so speaking 
it that the judge could not recognize his mother 

" We shall not camp on the river bank to-night,"' 
said the Wanderer, in the jargon he affected, draw- 
ing his sacks of wrinkles closer around restless 
eyes, and staring through the lovely glow at those 
fairy towers of the capitol. 

" No, no, no ; I sleep in a raft-shanty to-night," 
said Bruno-Morel exultingly. "I float on down 
Ottawa and give myself no trouble. My pay in 
one pocket and a lump of black-pudding in the 
other. Zt ! " He snapped his gay fingers. 

"My wife will come out when she sees this 
drive," remarked the other man, scanning that 

ng river flowing into the St. Lawrence from the south, but to many 
roughout Canada. 



side of the river on which Quebec province lay 
and the French suburb straggled. 

" And where will the raft-shanty land thee, my 
pretty Chaudiere pebble," inquired the grimly 
humorous Wanderer, of Bruno-Morel, — "suppos- 
ing you find a raftsman willing to take you aboard ? " 

"I go to Quebec to see my sisters Alvine and 
Marcelline. Then, perhaps, will I make the good 
pilgrimage." * 

" ' My sisters Alvine and Marcelline.' I thought 
you told us you had twenty brothers and sisters." 

Bruno-Morel lifted his eyebrows and shrugged 
his shoulders carelessly. 

" Oh ! they are all except Jules spread away 
like leaves. They are old and have families of 
many children. My sisters : — I tended them when 
they were little ; I led them out to play. If they 
wanted anything, ' Bruno-Morel, get it for thy 
Marcelline.' ' Bruno-Morel, get it for thy Alvine.' 
Many a whipping I took from the good mother before 
she died, for pulling her onions for them to suck." 

"The whole province of Quebec," growled the 
Wanderer, " is a hundred years behind Amerikec. 
A hundred years behind. At Ste. Anne's I go into 
a shop. I am a man of small size, yet I grope down 
a step into that little pig'on-hole and knock my head 
against the top of the door. Why don't they have 
shops a man can step into without knocking his 
head ? And there you find a woman 
keeping post-office in a candle-box set 
on end, with two shelves in it. And these 
old Frenchmen with holdings of land, 
what do they do, the lazy smokers, but 
turn off duty at fifty, pick one child 
to support them, and scatter the rest of 
their family to the four winds ! " 

" And what could you do better, my 
fine Wanderer, if your land could be 
cut up no smaller?" inquired Bruno- 
Morel, transfixing with his contempt 
the abuser of his fathers. 

"I would n't be a hundred years be- 
hind the age," the Wanderer grumbled. 

" It 's just as well," remarked the 
other lumberman, speaking English as 
his people often do to keep themselves 
in practice. " This mudderin' progress 
is more infidel than Christian." 

The Wanderer grunted. 

'■' This Bruno-Morel, he would give all 
the wages he can ever earn, to be master 
of that stony strip running uphill in 
the Chaudiere valley ; — is it not so ? " 

"There 's no place like it in the world," said 
Bruno strongly. "I would rather live there and 
have Alvine and Marcelline by me, than sit on the 

throne chair in parliament yonder. But since I am 
not Jules," — he snapped his fingers, laughing, and 
began to sing: 

t" En roulant ma boule-le roulant, 
En roulant ma bou-Ie. 
Der-riere, chez nous, y a-t-un e-tang, 

En roulant ma bou-le. 
Trois beaux canards s'en vont baignant, 
Rou-li roulant, ma bou-le roulant." 

" Behind the Manor lies the mere, 

(In rolling my ball.) 
Three ducks bathe in its water clear, 

(In rolling my ball.) 
Roly, rolling, my ball rolling, 
In rolling my ball rolling, 

In rolling my ball." 



voix senle. 


Away on their left the Laurentian mountain 
range was being warmed from blackness to rosy 
flushing. The river itself received color as if pink- 
ness had been poured to its very depths. This 
would last briefly, fading first to milk-opal, then 
to gray. Finally a smoky mist would cover the 


water, starred by electric lights on projecting 
wharves and whitened by the foam-line of that 
boiling Chaudiere. 

* All French-Canadians call going to the church and shrine of Ste. Anne de Eeaupre " making the good pilgrimage." 
tThe first stanza of an ancient Canadian chanson. Mr. William McLennan's pretty rendering is given with the text. 




The lumbermen were anxious to slide their raft 
before the afterglow faded. The cribs were ready 
for the plunge when a few of the withes and pegs 
which fastened them in long trains were pulled 
out, leaving small lots securely held together. 

Bits of foam, like white butterflies, continually 
filled the air above the half-circular falls whose 
roaring interfered with the men's voices shouting di- 
rections to each other. Betwixt their boat hugging 
the north shore, and the cascade itself, intervened 
a wide space of rapids, whirlpools, and dark rock. 
Both shores seemed crowded with mills and facto- 
ries, and a great bridge here spanning the river 
seemed a causeway over lumber-docks. 

Down that descending canal, the slide, shot one 
and another bunch of timbers. The men poled 
them into its race current. 

An old Algonquin squaw, known as Sally, stood 
on the bridge and watched this coming into har- 
bor of freight from the woods. Her copper face 
had the distorted, toil-saddened look so many In- 
dian women wear her black eyes reminding one 
of the eyes of suffering dumb creatures. A bas- 
ketful of birch-bark work and ornamented mocca- 
sins was on her shoulders. Her coarse hair hung 
down her breast and back. A blanket folded 
around her trailed its point in the dust. She wore 
a brown linsey petticoat ; her moccasins flattened 
themselves wearily on the bridge flooring. 

The Algonquin woman had a son named Fran- 
cois, who spent much time wandering away to his 

Occasionally he was to be seen on the home- 
ward road, nearly naked, saying he must go back 
to see his old mother ; and he usually remained 
with her until she bad clothed him again by her 
various handcrafts. 

Sally did not know that Francois was at this 
time on his way home. 

He was skulking among buildings on the Que- 
bec side of the river near a roaring flume among 
rocks called the Devil's Hole. Francois had been 
waiting for the shades of evening to help him on 
his way, for he wore as scanty a remnant of tanned 
leather as he had ever brought home. 

Bruno-Morel seized his chance to leap upon a 
swaying crib. His companions laughed to see the 
boy's muscular skill. Logs in water, if uncoupled, 
are a most deceitful base ; they roll over at a 
touch. When most densely packed they part and 
open a crushing mouth to swallow any victim ; and 
tenaciously do those wooden lips close over a man 
when he has gone down. Nothing is more treach- 
erous, unless it be the sawdust which spreads it- 
self so like a sandy beach at the river's edge that 
people have stepped upon it and plunged under. It 
adds its own poison gas to the danger of drowning. 

Both lumbermen had run many a slide. They 
rowed ashore, thinking it no risk for Bruno-Morel 
to poise himself on the last crib as it shot to the 
brink of the slide : 

' Rou-]i roulant, ma boulc roulant, 
En roulant ma bou-le." 

Sally screamed to him from the bridge. He 
looked up, then looked down, and saw what threat- 
ened him as he took the plunge. The first crib 
which had gone over had broken up, and the 
timbers were floating at right angles in all direc- 
tions. His single thought was how it would shame 
him to be drowned in a slide, strong swimmer and 
hearty lad that he was. 

Bruno jumped for his life. But his crib jumped 
equally far. It struck him as he dived. 

The men above the slide knew nothing of this. 
Sally ran, shouting in Algonquin and French, to- 
ward the Quebec shore. She saw her son Francois 
slip to the water's edge and plunge after the boy. 
Her outcry brought people together in a flock, 
Bruno-Morel's fellow-lumbermen among them. 
Both men threw off their woolen blouses and moc- 
casin-like boots, and dived also. 

Francois came up dripping and like a mum- 
mied merman, having found nothing. The other 
rescuers, too, came up empty-handed. An excited 
crowd searched with poles and lights long after 
the even-glow had darkened to night. 

It would have comforted Bruno-Morel to hear 
the Wanderer say hoarsely to his surviving com- 
panion as they tramped the walks of the French 
suburb going to their beds : 

" That boy was caught in the break-up. He never 
dropped that fashion through the bottom of the 
Ottawa, merely running a slide ! " 



Chapter II. 


In the month of July, six weeks later, Alvine 
Charland walked along the Beaupre road. She had 
left Quebec early in the morning, but had stopped 
many times to look back at the ancient citadel from 
different points of the winding road, for whatever 
one may have in mind, such sights draw the eye, 
and through it comfort him. 

She had stopped, also, to pray in the church at 
Beauport, and to lean on the bridge which spans the 
Montmorenci just before it takes its leap down the 

Gate-charges prevented Alvine from going 
around the bluff and looking at that perpendicular 
torrent which seems to clothe its rocky descent in 
everlasting robes of glistening white satin. But 
she could look up a gorge where it foamed before 
its ale-colored flood slid under the bridge. 

So evening found her still some miles away from 
the village of Ste. Anne de Beaupre ; and it threat- 
ened a storm. Her way, indeed, lay through an 
endless village where every few rods she might ask 
shelter; for the farm-houses huddled in one con- 
tinuous row between St. Lawrence river and the 
Laurentian hills — that natural battlement against 
icy winter air from Labrador. 

There was a wide flat strip between river and 
houses, and salt air prevailed along Beaupre road, 
for you could see where the Atlantic tide left its 
high-water mark. The island of Orleans, twenty- 
two miles in length, seemed to keep Alvine com- 
pany on her way, so steadily did it unroll its 
panorama of wooded hills, church towers, and 
Norman-roofed houses. 

The cottages on the Beaupre road were all built 
after this ancient pattern, their sharp gables being 
in some cases triangularly roofed. There were 
houses of stone, of blocks, and rough-cast ones 
finished outside with coarse plaster, but all with 
wide up-curved eaves and dormer windows. Many 
chimneys were nearly as large as the dwellings 
they topped, and more than one flue stood inclosed 
in panels of wood. 

To Alvine Charland it was like walking among 
the homesteads of her native Chaudiere valley. 
She was used to seeing barns thatched with bun- 
dles of straw, which in a weather-beaten state 
looked like drapery of dull gold velveteen; and to 
huge dormer doors in barns with smaller doors 
opening in them. There was nothing quaint to 
her eye on the Beaupre road, not even the wayside 
chapels so diminutive they could scarce hold more 
than an altar. 

Some houses had broad stone coping along the 
edge of their gables, from chimney to eaves. 

And several homesteads made that gaudy dis- 
play of riches which an uneducated French-Cana- 
dian is pretty sure to make when his purse 
overflows. Still, Alvine beheld with delight the 
florid residence of one family ; an expansion of the 
usual type, having the figures of a pink boy on 
one side of the door and a blue girl on the other. 
A tent stood on the lawn, and near it played a 
fountain, presided over by another cast-iron urchin 
well painted. In the midst of the summer-house, 
which also decked the green, hovered a lavender 
and yellow angel. 

Occasionally some housewife opened half a 
swinging window and glanced out at Alvine. As 
their eyes met, resident and passer saluted each 
other politely. 

The window-sashes were all lined inside with 
gay wall-paper, patterns inclining to lace effects 
being the favorites. But most windows and doors 
stood wide open, and children played along the 

At Alvine's left hand the hill foliage was at in- 
tervals cleft by a rocky ledge dripping spring-water 
all the way down. Cool breaths of mint came 
from such mossy recesses. But pines, ashes, elms, 
and maples, in crowding succession, fanned and 
shaded her before the herald wind of the storm 
began to pour along the Beaupre road. 

Alvine had sat down by one of those small caves 
built opposite every house for a fruit and milk 
cellar, and which — roofed with sod or thatched 
with pine branches — suggests a hermit's cell, 
especially when near a wayside shrine. The doors 
were all strong and well padlocked. She took 
some bread out of her pocket to eat ; it was time 
for her evening meal, and she had been told that 
in the pensions at Ste. Anne de Beaupre they 
charged for what you ate aside from lodgings. 
Water for her to drink had run down-hill to meet 
her at every cleft in the mountain-side. 

Alvine was a tawny girl, with dark, hazel eyes 
and braided hair, handsome only in her young 
and pliant shape, which labor had strengthened 
without disfiguring, and in a wistful, loving ex- 
pression of face which attracted strangers. She 
was dressed in what her people call the American 
fashion, instead of in the linsey petticoat and short 
sack of rural Canadiennes. Her hat had come 
from the shop of some Quebec milliner, and was 
ornamented with flowers. Her black wool gown 
hung bunched in the prevailing way, and she wore 
bottes Fmiifaises, or store-made shoes, instead of 
bottcs sausages, as the Canadian calls his moc- 
casins. These garments she had put on with bet- 
ter adaptation than was common. 

While she ate her bread, along the road came 
rattling a vehicle, queerly unlike the two-wheelers 



she had met at intervals during the afternoon. It 
was a little wooden wagon on four wooden wheels, 
drawn by a large Newfoundland dog. In the 
wagon sat a lean, black-bearded man, unruffled 
by the dust cloud which rushed at him. He was 
going Alvine's way serenely, and with as little 
effort of his own as an idol taking an airing. The 
willing dog, hanging out his tongue, trotted along 
the well-beaten track. It was a sight common 
enough in the Chaudiere valley ; nor to Alvine's 
■eye was there anything peculiar in the man's blue 
woolen tasseled cap, and loose blouse girdled with 
a fringed red sash. 

Through the dust his twinkling black eyes saw 
Alvine, and, touching his cap, he greeted her in 
passing : 

" Good-evening, Mademoiselle." 

" Good-evening, Monsieur," replied Alvine. 

Before he rattled out of sight, a steeper grade 
taxed the dog, and he had the grace to relieve his 
claw-footed steed by turning himself around in the 
wagon and pushing the ground with his heels. 

Alvine had finished her bread and added some 
furlongs to her journey, when it began to rain 
gently. She had not asked for shelter when she 
might have done so, and the walls now nearest to 
her were the remains of a ruined stone house par- 
tially choked up with weeds. It was unroofed, 
excepting at the north-east corner. The stone 
partition between two rooms was still perfect, and 
a doorway pierced it. In each room there was an 
oblong depression in the wall where cupboard or 
closet shelves had been ranged. A tall maple-tree 
grew in the outer room beside the partition door. 

The rain that began so gently became sheets of 
flapping water by the time Alvine had darted into 
this old ruin. She sheltered herself in the roofed 
corner, half distrustful of it, though the wind blew 
all rain away from her there and kept her dry. 
As if that flood of sky-water washed darkness 
down, the air grew opaque to sight, and it was 
night where twilight hovered a moment before. 

Alvine wished she had stopped at any inhabited 
house. The rain poured and poured. She won- 
dered if she would have to choose between staying 
there all night and wading out in the storm. Al- 
vine did not people the ruined house with terrors 
projected from her own mind, and there would 
be little travel on the Beaupre road ; yet she rea- 
sonably dreaded to spend the night there. Weeds 
stood high and wet close to her. Spiders, of 
course, and other tiny creatures had taken the 

old place to themselves, and it was open to any 
prowler that might creep about on four feet or two. 

But balancing this was Alvine's reluctance to 
wet her clothes. She was on a serious quest, and 
they were her grand toilet and the only outfit she 
had with her. Girls of fifteen are not usually so 
careful, but Alvine had paid for these with her 
own labor. A wool dress and trimmed hat in such 
cases become more than a temporary skin ; they 
are part of one's life made portable. 

There had been no lightning, and the wind 
sunk ; the rain had all that mountain and river 
region to itself. Its downpouring sounded like 
the steady murmur in thousands of hives. Now 
an angry dash was made ; it stung a wall or 
thumped against rocks. 

Alvine sat on some stones in her corner. Un- 
expectedly, and as if many little flashes had been 
reserved and melted into one cannonade, the light- 
ning glared out terribly, painting all visible crea- 
tion on a scroll of fire. Alvine saw as if with the 
outer rims of her eyes every leaf on every weed 
within the old walls; but her central sight saw 
sharply through the doorway, standing against the 
tree growing there, that very person for whom she 
was searching — her brother Bruno-Morel. He 
was looking up at the sky, his lips were parted, 
and rain trickled down his cheeks. 

She saw his drenched blouse, and noted it was 
unbuttoned at the neck. She saw him one instant 
the central figure of a glaring world, and the next 
he was quenched from her sight in darkness, and 
thunder jarring the ground defied her to have any 
sense but hearing. 

Alvine drew in her breath to scream his name, 
and jumped up to run and catch him. But some 
form of self-restraint stopped her in the act. She 
could not say why it was. Whatever change had 
come over him he would not hurt her; and Bruno 
was not a boy to be unnerved by one's jumping 
upon him from ambush. So much she loved him, 
and had she not come out to hunt him and lead 
him back docile by her side ? Yet now she hesi- 
tated, and another flash came showing every bark 
line on the tree, and no Bruno-Morel anywhere. 
Alvine called instantly, running out regardless of 
her clothes and that revival of flooding rain which 
follows lightning : 

"Bruno, Bruno — thy Alvine! Bruno, come 
back, then. I, alone in the dark, thy Alvine " 

But no reply reached her as she splashed reck- 
lessly along the road. 

{To be continued.) 

Taithful Leo 

Bv Mrs. Holman Hunt. 

There is a valley of the Rhine where the or- 
chards are so full of fruit that the glossy boughs 
bend to the grass with their load of crimson apples 
and russet pears. So abundant is the harvest there 
that the laden branches must be propped, enab- 
ling them to bear their burden until the gathering- 
time. Then the maidens mount the tall ladders 
laid lightly to the branches, and shake lustily, 
while the fruit falls i/itid, thud into the grass be- 
neath, and the little children who play around, 
minding cows, or often chasing the goats, gather 
the fruit into light wooden carts, and draw home 
their load in triumph ; or they pack it in sacks for 
stronger arms than their own to bear away. 

Then these merry Swiss children clamber the 
hillsides after the goats, or drive home the tinkling 
cows to the milking ; while their busy mothers set 
to work and cut the rosy apples, threading them 
upon strings to dry for winter food, when the trees 
will be leafless, and the little ones, who now run 
with heads uncovered to the sun, will be muffled 
in knitted hoods and gloves against the icy wind 
and snow. 

In this happy valley lived " faithful Leo," but 
not as a peasant's dog ; he had nothing to do with 
the life of these sunburnt children beyond sending 
them scattered to right and left, with rippling 
laughter, when he occasionally took a stroll in the 

Vol. XVI.— 7. 9 

Leo lay basking in the sun outside a large hotel, 
rich and formal, where he had been left by a mas- 
ter who cared little for him, and who had never 
returned to claim him. To this hotel flocked all 
manner of travelers : some simply to amuse them- 
selves with the music and the dancing, the chat- 
ter and the picnics ; while others, restless and 
worn, came there to drink the waters and bathe 
in the hot springs which travel from their grim 
subterranean fountain into the pleasant valley. 

Such invalids were too earnestly bent upon the 
hope of cure to pay much heed to Leo as they 
passed him on their way to the healing springs. 
These tired people would cross a pine-log bridge 
spanning the tearing river, sometimes singly, but 
oftener in little bands (for suffering, like joy, seeks 
fellowship), and disappear into the ravine, whose 
path is seldom lighted by the sun, so sheer the 
high rocks rise on either side. Only for one half- 
hour of the day do the waters of that torrent reflect 
the sun that burns the earth above. The springs' 
healing powers should be great indeed to match 
the terrible aspect of the place whence the waters 
issue. Three thousand feet above hangs the 
earth like a great dome, its crust pierced here and 
there, letting the sunlight in, and laced across 
with roots of rugged trees. One by one, along a 
slender bridge, the sick folk (tapers in hand) feel 
their way into this gnome world, the vapors 

9 8 



steaming from cavernous rocks, where for centu- 
ries, even as far back as the days of early Chris- 
tians, generations of sufferers have come for 

But Leo's lot was not cast amongst these ; his 
days were spent in the pursuit of pleasure or in 
enjoyment of serene content : he had not an ache 
nor a pain under his fine tan coat, as he lay with 
silky ears hanging heavily beside his haughty face, 
and sturdy paws spread before him. 

He was listening lazily to the sweet notes of a 
stringed band as the music was wafted over beds 
of China-roses and ox-eye daisies, yellow and 
white. Now and then he snapped at a fly that 
seemed by its buzzing to disturb his meditations, 
but on the whole he was decidedly comfortable ; 
the visitors did not trouble him as they strolled 
up and down, up and down, under the alcove 
where he lay or brushed the extreme tip of his 
tail as they swept long skirts upon the lawn. Most 
of the strollers spoke to Leo in passing, — " Dear 
old fellow," -'Nice Dog," they said, — but he only 
blinked his brown eyes a little haughtily and took 
no further notice of these advances. 

There was but one visitor at Ragatz whom Leo 
cared very much to see, and she was not his 
owner, neither had she any relations with him be- 
yond those of instinctive attraction. She was bet- 
ter to him than mistress : she was the friend of his 

The lady was tall, thin, and dark, not like an 
English woman, although her name was English. 
Her features were dark and oriental, and her dark 
eyes overshadowed by masses of waving black hair ; 
but the eyes were kindly, and her voice like sweet 
music, pleading and gentle. Around her there was 
ever a scent of magnolias, as with soft silk skirts 
she passed up and down the alcoves among her 
friends, not often speaking, but listening to the 
music, for she loved it. 

She would toy with a silver heart that hung on 
the girdle at her side, while holding out a hand to 
pat the blunt head of the St. Bernard with her 
long delicate fingers. At first Leo had answered 
only by dreamily shutting his eyes with a look 
of content, but he could not long resist the lady's 
gentle ways: his dignified reserve broke down, 
and soon he might be seen delightedly wagging his 
tail at the first sign of the approach of the " lady 
of the silver heart." 

In course of time Leo began to be called the 
"dark lady's dog"; he shared with her many a 
dainty meal, when, away from the noise and heat 
of the table-d'kote, she sat at the open win- 
dow of her room, taking dinner alone. Or he fol- 
lowed her in long walks by the reedy banks of the 
river, and up the zigzag paths through the beech- 

woods, where the squirrels dart in and out ; and 
hiding himself cunningly from the servants, made 
his bed outside her door at night. 

The summer came to an end ; the apples were 
gathered in the orchard; the tinkling of cattle-bells 
grew less and less ; the pomegranates in the gar- 
den-pots dropped scarlet flowers as their leaves 
turned to russet gold ; the dancing fountain in the 
pleasure garden only trickled slowly over lazy fish 
in the marble basin below; and the black swan 
ceased to take his shower-bath beneath it, scatter- 
ing timid ducks to right and left, as he had done 
when the sun made summer rainbows in the misty 
spray. The musicians put their instruments to 
bed. The time had come for visitors to leave the 
valley of cheerful plenty. 

Poor Leo little knew the grief that was pre- 
paring for him, and he shook himself joyously as- 
his dear lady held out her gloved hand one sunny 
morning, saying, " Come, old fellow, let us take 
our last walk together." 

Off he bounded in clumsy delight, pushing his 
friend against the portico. Down beside the river 
where grow the £>or/ili?enn with orange fruit, — 
the small birds' winter food, — along the tunnel 
bridge over the tumbling Rhine, and out into the 
nut-plantation, whence rose far-off voices of chil- 
dren as the young branches cracked before their 
eager footsteps. 

Leo thought to himself it was the happiest run 
he had had for a long time, perhaps ever, and he 
tried to say this to his dear lady by sidling up to her 
and rubbing his sturdy coat against the Indian 
shawl she had wrapped about her, for although 
the sun shone, there was a keen wind blowings 
down the valleys. '"We will come here again, "■ 
thought the dog, as they crossed a shaky little 
foot-bridge over the babbling stream. 

The lady sat down to enjoy the picture of pur- 
ple rushes fringing the water on one side, and 
the fields of russet-gold millet where the reapers 
worked. The women — their heads bound in 
blue kerchiefs — were turning the ground for its 
next year's burden of plenty, with glad health 
in the sway of their limbs ; and the wind made 
rustling music in the fields of Indian corn. 

" How beautiful ! " she said aloud. " I wish I 
had a sixth sense to feel it all to the full. My 
dear dog, I wish you too could enjoy all this as I 
do"; and taking his sturdy head between her 
hands, she added, "Yes, I am sure I was right 
and my old governess wrong when she used to 
argue that my dogs and cats had no souls. 
Whether your soul, dear Leo, is quite your own, 
or only a transmigrated one, I don't know, but 
that you have a soul I am quite sure ; and that it 
is further on the road to perfection than some 



still inhabiting humanity, I am inclined to believe. 
Dear faithful old fellow, how I shall miss you ! " 
and the petals of a rose in her shawl fell scatter- 
ing around Leo, and even a beautiful tear fell 
with them. The dog whined in sympathy, put up 
a paw on the lady's arm, and pushing his heavy 
body against her, said plainly, "Get up. Why 
sadly lose time that might be enjoyed on the hills 

" I fear your soul never transmigrated from poet 
or artist, Leo, but rather from an athlete. Physi- 
cal exercise seems your one idea of happiness." 
And the lady rose to go farther. But Fate had 
taken part against Leo's promised ramble. They 
were to return, and sorrowfully, for the silver 
heart he knew so well was missing from the lady's 
girdle. "Gone!" she exclaimed, running her 
hand down the chain. " Why did I not fasten it 
more securely ? Surely I shall never be so fortu- 
nate as to find it a second time. See, Leo," she 
said, holding out the chain pendantless, " I have 
lost my heart. Go look for it " ; and she turned 
herself cautiously about, lest the lost treasure 
should have lodged itself in some fold of her dress. 

After sniffing about through the grass and fallen 
leaves, Leo gave himself a convincing shake and 
started off at a steady trot on the homeward road. 

From the red kiosk of the little white-washed 
church, nestled in the village hard by, sounded 
the bell for vespers, echoed by the tinkling of the 
cattle, driven home by their child-guide ; while 
the tumbling river gathered up the sounds, and 
carried them on with its own grand music. Clouds 
gathered, and rain fell more and more heavily, the 
wind soughed through the fields of wheat, and 
showers of starlings dropped from the poplars into 
the red gold reeds beneath. 

The two trudged on, — Leo with steady pace 
and purpose; the lady, the victim of each shining 
stone and glittering leaf, losing hope with every 
fresh beguilement. Suddenly the dog hastened 
his pace and disappeared into the depths of a low, 
covered bridge which the hastening evening made 
dark and mysterious. At the extreme end of the 
tunnel he set to work scraping vigorously between 
the timbers, and the lady came up to him just in 
time to see her silver heart, loosened from the 
earth, drop between the planks into the sad-col- 
ored waters beneath. 

She had scarcely realized what had happened 
before Leo was again at her side, the treasure in 
his mouth ! It had fallen into the brink of the 
river among stones and reeds, and so escaped 
being swept away. 

It would be difficult to say which was the greater, 
the dog's pride or the lady's gratitude, upon the 
recovery of the precious trinket. 

"There," she said, dropping it into the bosom 
of her dress, " lie there, faithless heart, and learn 
not to throw yourself away so recklessly. I shall 
fasten you more securely in future ; this is not the 
first time you have troubled me. Ah, Leo ! " she 
said, " we might all take a lesson from you. But, 
come, we must trudge on, for it grows late, and 
this wind up the valley makes me shiver." 

Things sad and happy, both must end ; and so, 
much too soon for Leo's content, did this last walk 
with his dear lady. Next morning there was snow 
upon the mountains, far down into the valley, and 
days of cold comfort for our poor dog, for, with a 
loving embrace, the lady left him. 

Poor fellow ! he followed the carriage, with its 
jingling bells and grass-decked harness, as far as 
the railway station ; then came the merciless 
whistle, and away went the train. Leo watched 
it tearing through the valley till lost in the mount- 
ain tunnel; then, sulky and dejected, he trudged 
back to the empty hotel. They were dreary days 
that passed while the "Hotel des Bains" was 
being put in order for its winter sleep ; dreary 
to Leo, but not so to the workers. All labor 
seems happy in this land of plenty ; outside in 
the valley men and women work on, regardless of 
weather; gardeners turning the earth, dressing 
the fruit-trees, weeding garden-beds ; the saw and 
the hammer never idle, and unceasingly the cattle- 
bells tinkle; while within doors pretty Louise and 
her fellows, with white caps slung back ever so far 
from carefully coiled tresses, look as if the cease- 
less scrubbings in which they have been employed 
for a week past were pure enjoyment. 

Was there ever such rubbing and scrubbing? 
It did not cease even while the presiding genii 
took their meals. Such washing of floors, such 
polishing of paint and door-handles by the 
women, such cleaning of windows and beating of 
carpets by the men, and all directed under the 
smile of content. It was enough to give such 
grace to house-cleaning as would have satisfied 
George Herbert himself. 

Leo prowled about the empty corridors between 
pails and brushes, his head hung down and his 
tail limp indeed. He knew quite well that he 
should not find his lady there, but an unquiet 
mood was upon him, and would not let him rest. 
Although Madame Vizinard, the hotel-keeper's 
wife, offered him choice morsels from her plate, and 
never forgot his liking for the bones of the poulet, 
which appeared without fail at the family supper, 
and although, so far as the busy season would 
allow, she spoke kindly to him as she passed 
from room to room inspecting the house-cleaning, 
Leo could not respond graciously. He pined 
after his lady of the soft dark eyes who had magic in 







m i 



her voice ; the stout, brisk little body, the tightly 
twisted hair, drawn back smooth and shining, the 
shrill voice and busy step of the hostess, could not 
charm away his melancholy. 

Dogs' melancholy, like that of men, is some- 
times unreasonable and ungrateful. 

Last came the carpenters, with planks and nails. 
They hammered up windows and doors, to save 

the bright paint from rain and snow, and Leo 
found himself left upon the door-step. Then 
the ghostly figure of the Chef, in white cap and 
garments, passed across the hall, and our dog was 
alone, the rain-drops from the portico dripping 
steadily over his coat. There he lay, looking 
sullenly down the avenue of autumn leaves, quite 
indifferent to the glories of their red and gold, 




and wondering how on earth any dog, and above 
all a St. Bernard, could be expected to endure 
such a fate, when from force of old habit he found 
himself pricking up his ears at the sound of wheels 
upon the sodden gravel. 

" New visitors ! " he said to himself, his melan- 
choly for the time replaced by curiosity. Tinkle, 
tinkle, they came, a carriage and four steaming 
horses, the feathered plumes upon their heads look- 
ing somewhat draggled after a day's journey from 
the snowy heights of Davos into the rain-watered 
plains below. Click ! went the whip as the driver 
turned his horses sharply round the corner, and 
the carriage, of course, must follow, though there 
seemed to be but slender connection between it 
and the lightly harnessed team. 

" Not coming here after all," thought Leo; and 
curiosity (which, like melancholy, is as strong in 
dogs as in men) mastering other feelings, he trotted 
off in the direction of the wheels. He had not far 
to follow the tinkling bells, for the horses had 
already stopped at Mr. Vizinard's private winter 
apartments, whither he and his family had mi- 
grated when carpenters took possession of the 
great hotel. On the doorstep stood a stranger 
wrapped in furs, who was talking cheerily to 
" mine host." 

" He seems a fine fellow, and I shall value him," 
said the stranger, and he took out some gold 
coins from his pocket-book. " Fine coat ; been 
clipped, I see, for the hot weather. I suppose you 
have had a good season here. As soon as I heard of 
the dog I determined to come thus far out of my 
way to bring him myself." " Who is he ? " thought 
Leo, as he came close enough to sniff at the owner 
of the fur coat, without appearing to be too in- 
quisitive. " What has he come for, so late in the 
year?" thought Leo. 

" He seems friendly already," said the gentle- 
man, giving the dog a kindly pat. " Will you 
come with us quietly, old fellow? or must we put 
you in a box, I wonder ? " 

Put him, Leo, a true St. Bernard, in a box ! 
Never ! And he turned haughtily away. 

Then there sounded a voice from the carriage, 
calling, "Leo, Leo, let us be friends! What a 
beauty you are ! " The voice sounded like his 
dear lady's. It spoke her language. Was it pos- 
sible that he of the fur coat was going to the coun- 
try of Leo's lost lady ? These questions passed 
through the dog's brain ; he turned, looked reluc- 
tantly back at the hotel, then a little distrustfully 
up into the stranger's face. Again that voice, so 
like his mistress's, — and yet, not altogether hers, — 
called him. He could resist no longer, and bounded 
into the carriage, where, after sundry fidgetings 
and twirlings among warm rugs, he felt himself at 

ease, and with at least fresh hope in possibilities 
of movement. 

It was not long before the carriage started. At 
first the novel motion made him restless ; he barked, 
and had some thought of jumping out, but the 
encouragement of the lady's voice and the contents 
of a luncheon-basket reassured him; and by the 
end of their four-hours' journey Leo felt a philo- 
sophical content. 

The place of their halt was not likely to con- 
duce to good spirits either in dogs or men. The 
hotel called " Belle Vue," more with regard to 
sound than fact, was one of those bare summer 
buildings which have of late sprung up among the 
snowy Alps. Its chilly salle a manger, with gilded 
wall-paper, painted ceilings, and gas, in which half a 
dozen belated travelers gathered at the end of a table 
prepared for fifty guests (not with any hope of the 
arrival of these, but from an idea on the part of 
the maitre d 'hotel that this made business look more 
prosperous) — all this did not add to our dog's 
content, nor could he be induced to feed there; 
he made the round of the table, and then, with 
sulky tread, passed out into the garden. But 
here the prospect was no more encouraging. 
There stood the fountain that would be gay, but 
could not (for the water was only half turned-on) ; 
the paths weed-covered ; the arbors that would be 
rustic, but were only spider-haunted ; tubs planted 
with shrubs that had long since given up all 
thought of growth in so chill an atmosphere ; and, 
most melancholy of all, a rustic aviary destitute 
of birds. The dog looked before him to the snow- 
clad hills ; behind him, to the more distant snow, 
with shining threads of little hillside streams, not 
yet frozen in their winter sleep ; on either side, 
up the valley to the little church upon the hill, and 
down the valley to the cavernous rocks where the 
road lay engulfed; and hope well-nigh died 
within him. 

He was cold, hungry, and ill content. Things 
looked little hopeful ; yet he felt a restless sensation 
of something better in store — something yet to 
track, which should restore his happiness. He 
wandered again into the hall, where stood a 
stuffed eagle, the melancholy and only survivor of 
the aviary in the garden. Leo looked up at it, 
gave a slight shudder, and trotted upstairs. 

Of a sudden all was changed; faint hope turned 
to certainty ! As a housemaid, passing hurriedly to 
prepare rooms for the new guests, flung open a 
door at the head of the stairs, Leo bounded in. 

The faintest scent of magnolias was about the 
place, fragrance just enough to remind one amidst 
the snow hills and chilly air, that summer had 
once been possible. 

" What a fuss that great dog makes," grumbled 




the housemaid, who was the last of her race left 
in the cheerless hotel, the civility of whose inmates 
seemed to be frozen up for the winter, so little of 
hospitality was there amongst them. " If that 
pretty lady, who spoke a civil word to every one 
she came across, were still in this room, I would 

hold of the golden thread of hope, and was reflect- 
ing upon the best means to make that hope cer- 

" Very well," said the housemaid, " I want my 
supper, so if you 're not coming I 'm not going to 
wait for you." 


not mind being cooped up here all winter, even 
though she lay ailing on this very sofa as she did," 
and the bustling maid shook up the pillows, send- 
ing a scent as of summer flowers about the room ; 
'■ but to have people coming with their .great 
clumsy dogs about the place, at this time of year, 
keeping me slaving here when the rest have gone 
back to Lucerne, is not what I will endure another 
year. I '11 not engage myself till the ' end of the 
season ' again " ; and with a farewell swish of her 
duster, she said, " Now you get up from the rug 
there ; I 've made all tidy for ladies and gentlemen, 
and not for a great dog like you." 

But Leo only winked in his sleep; he had firm 

Then she shut the door with a bang, and the 
sense of having done something disagreeable 
seemed greatly to soothe her irritated feelings. 

Leo had made up his mind, remembering the 
gold pieces he had seen paid down by his time- 
being master, before he took possession of him. 
He had a strong conviction that the exercise of a 
little cunning would not be uncalled for in effecting 
his escape. Therefore when the lady and her hus- 
band came into the room, where the dog lay 
dreamily before the porcelain stove, he made no 
attempt to move ; it was only when the serving 
of coffee brought with it some slight interruption, 
that he took occasion to slouch out of the room, 



with an air as of accident, and with the secret de- 
termination never to return. 

When once outside the place called " Belle Vue," 
Leo fell into a steady trot. Down the road, through 
the tunnel of cavernous rock, along the wooden 
bridge, swung from precipice to precipice above 
waters thundering and boiling, he went; for is it 
not true, " Over fords that are deepest, love will 
still find the way " ? Through pine forests where 
the wind blew piercingly, over long deserted roads, 
down, ever down, into the valley lands where Nat- 
ure looked kindlier than on the heights he had left. 

At last, thoroughly tired out, under the archway 
of an old town, Leo rested. With sunrise all was 
astir. The people in the restaurants took down 
their shutters, from church towers rang a single 
bell for prayer. The women appeared in groups 
of two and three, under shelter of the roofed 
market-place, while a few workmen were already 
seated, sipping coffee beneath the ash-trees whose 
scarlet berries told of coming winter ; but to-day 
it was St. Martin's summer in which those good 
folk were rejoicing. 

Leo, who but a few days since had turned away 
in scorn from the proffered kindness of Madame 
Vizinard, was now driven to condescend to the man- 
ners of ordinary dogs ; being very hungry, he, the 
proud St. Bernard, accepted alms in shape of bread 
and meat ! 

All regular carriages had ceased to run between 

■ these outlying Swiss towns, since the snow began to 

show itself low down on the mountains; only now 

and again a stray voiture de retour took its belated 

journey by the road leading to the French frontier. 

It was one of these carriages that rolled past while 
Leo took his humiliating meal. No time was to be 
lost. Up he got and trotted after the strangers 
with as unconcerned an air as if he had al- 
ways been a member of the company ; 
but when one of these travelers ad- 

dressed him in a patronizing tone, he turned his 
head away as if he and they were only accident- 
ally following the same route, and his real object 
of interest was the fine scenery through which they 
passed. Notwithstanding this cynical reserve on his 
part, Leo never failed to appear with the carriage 
at each halt of the two-days' journey, when refresh- 
ment was in question. On passing the French 
frontier, however, he was constrained — magnolia 
flowers compelling him — to part with these late- 
found friends. Alone and weary, past battlemented 
towns, castles and bishops' palaces, broad pasture 
lands, where dappled cows grazed luxuriously, 
prosperous villages whence the people flocked 
to the grape-gathering, where stood the quiet oxen 
loaded with vats of rich juice, — past all these plod- 
ders, love leading him, Leo the faithful reached a 
noisy sea-port. There was little elasticity in his 
half-lame gait as he jog-trotted past, little pride in 
the heart once so haughty ; but affection increased 
according to his devotion. Down the long rue with 
its inviting shops, through arcades of the fish mar- 
ket, past the quay where the people wrangled over 
cheapened wares; steadily ever onward, dodging 
between bales of goods, tram-trucks, and porters, 
down the steamboat ladder, into the boat itself and 
up to the feet of a lady who lay muffled in soft furs 
and half asleep in the most sheltered part of the 
deck, her thin hands toying with a silver heart that 
hung at her girdle. 

"Not you, Leo? It can not be! Who brought 
you here ? Did you know how ill your friend has 
been since we parted ! You faithful dog ! " And 
accepting his wild expressions of joy, the lady ca- 
ressed him in return. Then taking the silver chain 
from her side, she fastened it round Leo's neck, say- 
ing, " He should wear the silver heart, who is faith- 
ful as St. Bernard ! " 

And Leo has never again parted 
from his lady. 

L-ar/c flttlUoo pisait 

tft- Amv^ SailfiitjSS 


(On an old French Engraving.) 

By Edith M. Thomas. 

Little peers of olden France, — 

Jaunty cap with plume adance, 

Snow-white ruff, and careless curl, 

Ear-drop, necklace, all of pearl ! 

Little lady, little knight, 

Sing unto your hearts' delight, 

Warbling clear, or humming low. 

But it is not ours to know 

What the words or what the notes 

Tuned by your soft treble throats ; 

Not a tone our ears can win 

From the pleading violin, 

And your fingers, as they poise 

On the keys, awake no noise. 

Dainty birds of long ago, 

Only this we surely know : 

Other children change and change, 

Till their childish selves grow strange, 

And their mothers softly sigh, 

Seeing how the morn slips by ; 

You three courtiers small and gay — 

You will be the same alway ! 

Never Time with his rough share 

Comes to plow your foreheads fair; 

From all touch of changeful days 

You were caught with your sweet lays ; 

By the painter's loving skill 

We may see and love you still ; 

Blithe you were — and keep you so, 

Dainty birds of long ago ! 

By Mabel Loomis Todd. 

HAT immortal school-boy was 
he who first noticed the curi- 
ous fact that all the large 
rivers in his geography flowed 
past the largest cities ? 

Rivers may have this oblig- 
ing peculiarity — but the va- 
rious paths taken by total 
eclipses of the sun across the earth's surface, are far 
from following so desirable a precedent. Indeed, 
it often seems as if things that happen in the sky 
actually select the most out-of-the-way and inac- 
cessible parts of the globe as the only points from 
which they will deign to be seen. 

The longest total eclipse ever observed — with, 
I believe, one exception — was that of 1883, May 
6th, during which totality lasted for nearly five 
minutes and a half. Its track was thousands of 
miles in length, but lay almost wholly across the 
Pacific Ocean. It touched land only on the out- 
skirts of the Marquesas Islands — a barren reef 
being the only point available for setting up instru- 

Even these obstacles did not deter astronomers 
from observing this fine eclipse, and the Caroline 
Island, six miles long by one mile wide, has be- 
come famous in scientific annals. 

Alaska, Labrador, the summit of Pike's Peak — 
are only a few of the points to which observers and 
instruments have been transported to view solar 

Transits of Venus, it is true, are visible over 
much larger areas than eclipses traverse, but as- 
tronomers go far apart from one another to observe 
them, in order that Venus shall be seen projected 
upon portions of the sun's disk as widely separated 
as possible. Then, after years of calculation, the 
distance of the sun from the earth can be found. 

But this seeming coyness of eclipses and other 
astronomical phenomena, confers one advantage in 
the fact that while astronomers are scouring the 
earth for good observing positions, they are able 
to see many strange places — which the average 
tourist would never think of visiting merely for 

The path of an eclipse may be hundreds, or even 
thousands, of miles long, but it is only about one 
hundred miles wide usually ; and any astronomer 
who wishes to get good observations of the total 
eclipse must place himself very nearly in the mid- 

dle of this path. So there is a long line of points 
from which the sun is seen to be exactly covered 
by the moon, — not from all at the same time, but 
from one after another, as the moon's shadow- 
trails along the surface of the earth. 

The progress or track of a total eclipse is, in 
general, from west to east. That of August, 1887, 
in which totality lasted between three and four 
minutes, lay at first slightly north of east. 

Beginning near Berlin early in the morning, 
crossing the Russian Empire and the Ural Mount- 
ains, it turned somewhat to the south, passing lat- 
erally through Siberia and over Lake Baikal. Then, 
veering more to the south, it left the Asiatic con- 
tinent at Mantchooria, and after crossing the Sea 
and main island of Japan, it ended several hun- 
dred miles out in the Pacific Ocean, about two 
hours and a half of absolute time after beginning 
in Berlin. 

The only parties sent out from the United 
States to observe this eclipse, were in charge of 
Professor Charles A. Young, of Princeton, and 
of Professor David P. Todd, of Amherst. Pro- 
fessor Young went to Russia, near the beginning 
of the eclipse track; Professor Todd started in the 
opposite direction for Japan, to be near its termi- 

The bright envelope of light which surrounds 
the darkened body of the sun during an eclipse is 
called the corona. If you look at the full moon 
through a window-screen, you will see rays of scat- 
tered light which look somewhat as the corona 
does — only they appear longer and much more 
regular than the real corona, which looks very dif- 
ferent during different eclipses. 

The corona is very faint, and it can never be 
seen, except while the moon hides the sun ; and 
so astronomers have had only a small amount of 
time to study it. They are much puzzled to ac- 
count for all that they see ; but they have found a 
substance in it which is not known to exist on the 
earth, and which they have therefore agreed to call 
" coronium." 

The corona is brightest near the edge of the sun, 
and this part of it may be a sort of atmosphere of 
the sun. The streamers or wisps of light, extend- 
ing outward irregularly in almost every direction, 
are sometimes millions of miles in length, and seem 
to be due to a great variety of causes, possibly 
magnetic and electrical in part : but it seems cer- 




tain that much of this light is reflected from the 
cloud of small bodies called meteors, which sur- 
round the sun. 

Astronomers do not know whether this varies 
rapidly from hour to hour. And in addition to its 
greater duration than usual, this eclipse was a very 
favorable one for deciding this question by a com- 
parison of photographs of the corona, taken about 
two hours apart. 

Also, as the track lay across civilized countries, 
instead of barren water spaces, or through bar- 
barous settlements, the telegraph 
was immediately available, whereby 
one astronomercould communicate 
at once with the other, in case any- 
thing of peculiar interest occurred. 

The party for Japan was to start 
early in June, and on the 31st of 
May, 1887, the first train had gone 
straight through from Montreal 
to Vancouver, on the Canadian 
Pacific line. No steamer had yet 
sailed for China and Japan from 
that far-away and almost unknown 
port, but the pioneer voyage was 
to be begun on June 20th, by the 
old steamer "Abyssinia." So we 
bought the first tickets which were 
sold from Boston to Yokohama by 
that route, and indeed sailed on this 
first steamer. 

I must stop by the way long 
enough to speak of the scenery 
through which this railroad runs. 
It is interesting all the way, but the 
crowning delight of the journey 
comes during the last day or two 
in British Columbia — after the 
Rocky Mountains are reached. 
Four ranges are crossed in imme- 
diate succession, — the Rocky, Sel- 
kirk, Gold, and Cascade ranges, — 
while snow-covered peaks, enor- 
mous glaciers, mountain torrents 
leaping hundreds of feet at one 
bound and dissipating in spray long before they 
can reach the valley below, caiions of marvelous 
wildness and magnificence, make all those hours 
one bewildering series of grand and beautiful 
pictures. Switzerland itself can scarcely offer a 

Through a noble ravine, unromantically known 
as " The Kicking-Horse Pass," the terrible power 
of fire had made havoc with acres of hemlock forest, 
even to the tops of some of the nearer mountains, 
where human foot has never trod. Its fatal breath 
had turned miles of greenery into a melancholy 

black waste. Close at hand the charred bark had 
peeled off the still upright trunks, leaving them 
gloomily white — a sinister grove without life or 

After so many hours and miles of grandeur, it was 
almost a relief to reach the little town of Yale at 
the head of navigation on the Fraser, after passing 
through its magnificent canon. Here the river 
spreads out peacefully after its tumultuous descent 
through the mountains; and beyond this fore- 
ground comes the ethereal gleam of Mt. Baker — 



snow-covered, and far away in Washington Terri- 
tory. The vegetation through this region is almost 
rank in its luxuriance. Thickets of wild-roses, 
beds of purple lupine, solid masses of scarlet 
" painted-cups," and of nodding yellow lilies, lined 
the track. . 

The little city of Vancouver is now only about 
three years old. But there are six or eight thou- 
sand inhabitants, and much business and traffic. 
The "Abyssinia" started promptly, and we steamed 
out into a very infrequently-crossed portion of the 
Pacific Ocean. After gales, fog, and cold, we an- 





chored fifteen days later in the beautiful harbor of 

Of the beginning of our experience in the " Land 
of the Rising Sun," I have only space to say that 
it seemed more like an animated fan or screen than 
anything real. Riding \njinriki-skasvias endlessly 
entertaining, and I am obliged to confess that pity 
for the coolies who draw them does not extend far 
beyond the first day. These men are so eager for 
custom, and they run along in a sort of dog-trot 
apparently so easy and tireless, that the rider soon 
ceases to feel any troublesome compunctions, and 
heartily enjoys the novel conveyance. 

After consulting many officials and meteorologi- 
cal records as to the location most likely to prove 
clear on the 19th of August, Professor Todd finally 
selected Shirakawa, a city more than a hundred 
miles from Tokio, near the center of the path 
where the eclipse would be total. To this city a 
railroad had just been completed. All the pleas- 
ant journey there, was picturesque with thatched 

cottages, — many of the roofs gay with growing 
flowers, — rice-fields, ponds full of creamy lotus- 
blossoms, and cranes stalking about in marshes, 
or flying, as if for decorative effect, through the 
sunny air. 

Upon our arrival we found ourselves objects of 
intense interest. 

Our train was the first for passengers which went 
through to the little city, and the crowd at the 
station followed us all the way to the native hotel 
which became our first headquarters. Seated in 
a circle on the straw-matted floor, with our shoes 
left at the entrance (where an eager assembly ex- 
amined them), we enjoyed one of our first purely 
Japanese meals. A vista of numerous rooms, 
partly separated from each other by sliding paper- 
screens, opened beyond us, ending at last in a 
cool, damp garden, full of flowers, stone lanterns, 
and a fountain. Each of us was provided with a 
tiny square table, about six inches high, upon 
which was placed a lacquer bowl of strange soup 



containing an omelet, the bowl for rice with chop- 
sticks, and other articles not easily to be described 
in words. Little maids, strikingly like the well- 
known trio of "Mikado" fame, served us smil- 
ingly, and seemed surprised that our ability to eat 
rice ceased with the third bowlful. But until one 
has become quite accustomed to the use of chop- 
sticks, eating with them is a rather laborious oper- 
ation — particularly helping one's self to soup. 

Professor Todd had received from Count Oyama, 
the Japanese Secretary of War, permission to set up 
his instruments at the top of the old castle; and 
the next day we visited the beautiful ruin. The 
dwellings had been burned in the revolution of 
1 868 ; but three tiers of stone embankments, sur- 
rounded by a moat, rose picturesquely near the 
city. As we strolled up the grassy path, with in- 
sects buzzing and humming all about us, and the 
peaceful sunshine lying silently over the grim 

sort of opposing element struggled for the mastery 
— stoutly-repelled but ever-advancing modern 
thought, hatred toward foreigners, noble desire for 
the best ideas and civilization, Buddhism, Shinto- 
worship and Christianity; while through it all the 
forces of Shogun and Mikado battled unto death.* 
But out of this revolution, and the ideas which 
stood behind it, came light and progress and " new 
Japan," eager for knowledge and full of splendid, 
far-reaching ambition. 

For three hundred years the old gray walls have 
looked down upon the town eighty feet below, and 
upon the vivid green rice-fields, stretching away to 
distant mountains. The moat flows darkly around, 
reflecting the sky and the massive masonry above. 
A portion of it is overgrown with the magnificent 
leaves and blossoms of the pink lotus ; and yet 
another part is now a profitable rice-plantation. 

Picturesque gnarled pines are rooted here and 


stone-walls, it was hard to imagine that only there, and over the whole ruin run ivy and swing- 
twenty years before had been fought here a bloody ing festoons of white wild-roses, 
battle, as this last stronghold of the once all-power- Carpenters and coolies were soon at work set- 
ful Shoguns fell before the Mikado's conquering ting the instruments and making the houses to 
forces. cover them ; and on every clear night careful ob- 
Bitter times were those stormy years, when every servations of stars were made with the transit in- 

* See " Great Japan : The Sunrise Kingdom," St. Nicholas for November. 




strument having some special attachments, which 
gave us our latitude, or distance from the earth's 
equator, as well as accurate local time. The lat- 
ter was compared with the local time at the Ob- 


servatory in Tokio, which told us how far east we 
were from Greenwich, the world's prime meridian. 
All these preliminaries, with many others, were nec- 
essary to make available future observations of the 

In the mean time, a few excursions about the town 
proved that there was little of interest in the shops. 
A heavy sort of porcelain, made not faraway, which 
showed upon every piece either the outline or fig- 

* Kuruma is defined as carriage, or cart, or chariot. Jinriki-sha is a small two-wheeled 

are used interchangeably. 

tire in relief, of a horse, appeared to be the only dis- 
tinctive manufacture. The reeling of silk seemed 
the chief occupation of the women. In nearly 
every house could be seen young girls plunging 
their hands into basins of hot 
water for the white cocoons 
which floated about in the 
steaming bath. 

Returning to the hotel one 
morning, after a trip through 
the town, I wished to pay my 
kuruma-Tuanet * the ten sen 
which was the modest sum he 
demanded for two hours of 
service ; but 1 found nothing 
smaller in my purse than one 
yen. The yen is the Japanese 
dollar, worth at that time about 
seventy-seven cents, and is 
composed of one hundred sen. 
So our little maid ran out to 
change it for me, coming back 
in a few moments rather less 
speedily, and laughing hearti- 
ly. The reason was only too 
soon apparent. She had 
changed the paper yen all into 
copper Z-rin pieces — and it 
takes ten rin to make one sen ! 
The 8-rin piece is nearly two 
inches long by one wide, and 
lias a square hole in the 
center. The weight of 125 
of them strung together on 
stout twine can perhaps be im- 
agined ! My limited stock of 
Japanese forbade my inquir- 
ing concisely whether she per- 
petrated this pleasantry "on 
purpose," or whether she was 
indeed unable to get any 
larger change — which seemed 
to be the burden of her loqua- 
cious explanation. However, 
I disposed of as many as pos- 
sible to the coolie, and laid 
the rest away for a financial 
rainy day. These curious coins are seldom seen 
in the larger cities frequented by foreigners. 

The Japanese inn was finally abandoned for the 
tents on the castle, and during five weeks we 
camped out in a truly Bohemian fashion, very at- 
tractive to those not burdened with pretentious 

How our cook was able to provide 

us with din- 
ners of several courses from a combination of the 

art drawn by a man. The words 


I I I 

painfully deficient material to be found in the 
town and the " tinned " articles which we received 
from San Francisco and England, through Yoko- 
hama, was always a mystery. But he was a 
Japanese and had resources of which we knew 
not. It was always with a feeling of delightful 
security that we approached our tent dining-room, 
and " Cook-san " never disappointed us. We did 
make an effort toward freedom from condensed 
milk, and engaged the one man in the town 
known to own a cow to bring us fresh " chichi.' 1 '' 
Several days passed, and he did not come. Inquir- 
ies for a week brought out the information that 
our milkman owned only "one piece cow," and he 
could not supply us. His regrets were accom- 
panied by a magnificent spray of tall white lilies. 

have much silver in their composition, which may 
account for their deep and wonderful sweetness. 
Whether this be so or not, the bells make a pro- 
found impression upon all sensitive or musical 
organizations, heretofore accustomed to the more 
discordant church-bells of a newer civilization. 

And never did the lovely temple-bell in Shira- 
kawa ring out so sadly and deliciously as one night 
when a great fire laid waste a portion of the city. 
Thirty or forty houses made a fine blaze for two or 
three hours, and we watched it from the castle wall 
with pity and interest. The crackling of the flames 
as they licked up one little thatched roof after 
another, was terribly audible ; so, too, were the 
helpless cries and shouts of the surrounding crowd 
— while the red cinders were whirled far aloft, 


The bells of Japan are among its loveliest pos- 
sessions. One of the sweetest of them rang out 
many times every day into the waiting air, in this 
far-away little city. Its tone was intensely thrill- 
ing and pathetic. The bells are not sounded by 
a clapper within, but are struck from the outside 
by a sort of wooden arm, or battering-ram. Being 
withdrawn to the proper distance and released, it 
strikes the bell once — and the strokes are allowed 
to succeed one another only with a dignified and 
stately regularity. Tradition says the finest bells 

and fell even around us. But through the confu- 
sion and tumult, the calm bell rang out its indescrib- 
ably beautiful note — in quicker succession than 
usual, but losing none of its dignity and sweetness,, 
for all the discordant sounds so near. 

The music in Japan, however, is far from being 
melodious. Nearly everything is in a minor key, 
E-minor being apparently the favorite. It is all 
equally chaotic and unintelligible to foreign ears, 
from the weird songs of the workmen as they chant 
in unison, to the elaborate pieces performed by 





ladies upon the koto* accompanied by the voice. 
There being much yet to be done in Shirakawa upon 
the new railroad, gangs of twenty or thirty coolies 
were busy all day in heavy labor of all sorts. At 
their work they sang and shouted together upon 
three notes, which at last became nearly unendur- 
able. I observed in many places the song or chant 
of laborers, and this one unchanged succession of 
sounds was, I believe, peculiar to this particular 
region. I have written it out in notes as well as it 
can be so expressed — but there is a weird, nasal 
intonation which it is impossible to transcribe : 


=j ~j—j 



and so on, day in and day out. I think these three 
notes, sungthus, contained moremelody, or "tune," 
as children say, than anything else I heard in 
Japan. In some places the laborers ended inva- 
riably on the second of the scale — at others on 
the seventh, both of which actually wear one out, 

* A 13-stringeJ harp, or zither, about six feet long, and pi 

mentally, waiting for the restful tonic which never 

The officials and other dignitaries of the city 
and surrounding region were exceedingly attentive 
and polite, sending presents continually, and doing 
many graceful things to make our stay agreeable. 
One evening several of these gentlemen paid us 
a visit, bringing with them three musicians and a 

The koto was not used on this occasion ; the 
samisen, a smaller three-stringed instrument, 
played with an ivory spatula ; and the kokyu, held 
like a banjo, but played with a big bow like that 
of the double-bass ; and a flute, constituted their 
equipment, accompanied by singing. The young 
girl who danced for us was graceful and attractive ; 
her posturing, performances with a fan, and the 
stamp of her bare little heels in a sort of rhythm 
with the music were pretty and skillful. The 
names of two or three of the pieces played for us 
show how largely nature and flowers enter into the 
thought of the Japanese, " Harusame " (Spring 
Shower); " Umenimo-Harus " (Spring Falls on 
Plum-blossoms); "Haru-hana" (Spring Flower). 
And flowers are everywhere — in every tiny gar- 

ayed as it lies upon the floor, instead of being held upright. 



den, often thickly blossoming in the roof-thatch, 
and filling the meadows and roadsides. I once 
saw an immense squash-vine, covered with its 
yellow flowers, trained from the ground quite over 
a little house, hiding it completely from passers in 
the road. 

The shops and smaller houses in Shirakawa 
were also very hospitable to swallows, whose nests 
frequently hung from the low ceilings just above 
our heads, and as we bargained for some bit of 
porcelain or lacquer, the birds would flutter in 
and out, perfectly fearless and at home. 

Royal purple Canterbury-bells crowned the 
castle walls ; "sun-tanned " yellow lilies and clem- 
atis disputed every thicket with the swinging- 
white roses, while the pink lotus reigned over 
them all. Some of the neighboring ponds were 
full of the tiny, scentless, white water-lily and the 
rank yellow pond-lily, and moist places abounded 
in small, feathery, white orchids. There was also 
a very superb lobelia, almost exactly like our own 
cardinal flower, except that its color was the 
richest purple. All these beautiful things were 
endlessly attractive to paint, and I spent many 
hours in the entrance of my tent, at work on their 
dainty curves and colors. 

One of our boys brought up to me one morning 




Vol. XVI.— 8. 

a superb group of lotus-flowers, buds, picturesque 
seed-vessels, and leaves, in which each stem was 
carefully tied with a string just above where it had 
been cut. They are thus kept fresh longer. 

These regal flowers were at least six feet high, 
and I had no canvas large enough for them. At 
last I thought of the mino, or straw " rain-coats," 
several of which I had bought to serve as mats 
about the tent. Taking a fresh one, I had it tacked 
up before me at once, and upon that improvised 
background I painted the queenly flowers and 
their huge, surrounding leaves. 

The greatest interest in these paintings seemed 
to animate all the Japanese about the place. From 
the white-robed police who guarded the castle en- 
trances, to the coolies who brought water through 
the day, all, at one time or another, would stop 
and look on as I worked, so that I rarely painted 
without an audience. 

Among the water-carriers was one poor creature 
who, from his entire lack of personal comeliness, 
was noticeable even among his companions — 
none of whom possessed physical graces to any 
marked degree. His garments of dark-blue cot- 
ton were older — not to say fewer — than those of 
the rest, and he had a singularly retreating, ex- 
pressionless chin, which was still further over- 




selling TEA-POTS AND 

shadowed by the straw band which held upon 
his head his queer little round hat. We wickedly 
christened him the " Missing Link " ; and, truly, 
no mortal seemed ever to embody that title so 
fully. He was a picture of forlorn, hopeless pov- 
erty and subjection as he toiled up the steep path, 
bearing across his shoulders the yoke from each 
end of which hung the wooden buckets of spark- 
ling water. (Clear, pure, safe water was one of 
our compensations at Shirakawa. ) 

And yet, this poor specimen of humanity, hardly 
a man, began at once to show the most intense and 
absorbing interest in each flower-painting. After 
every trip with his buckets he would come to my 
tent — timidly at first, then advancing nearer, as 
I showed no displeasure. There he would stand, 
watching eagerly, almost thirstily, until, remem- 
bering his yoke, he would start away abruptly, 
only to come panting up the hill again to see what 
had been added in his absence. 

During the two mid-day hours, when all the la- 
borers rested and took their lunch, this coolie sat 
in the shade of a particular bush near by, with his 
little bowl of rice, often making excursions to mv 


tent, even if I were not still painting, to look 
through the opening at the various studies pinned 
around the sides. Often at such times he acted as. 
showman and general guide to the other work- 
men — they standing in a circle about him as he 
pointed out one thing after another. I watched 
him on many a sultry noontide from the shade of 
a large tree not far away, and I could see his poor 
face fairly glow with enthusiasm as he talked to 
his audience in a perfect whirl of Japanese. 

I asked our interpreter one day what the man 
was talking about. 

" Oh ! " said he with a slight shrug, " that 's 
only an eccentric coolie admiring your flowers, and 
telling his friends how you did them and which he 
likes best." 

One morning this poor water-carrier came up to 
me rather shyly with a great bunch of beautiful 
wild-flowers in his hand, which, with a word or two, 
he presented " for okusaii [madam] to paint." 

I thanked him as well as my meager Japanese 
permitted, and put the flowers in water, at which 
he seemed gratified and went away. After that his- 
floral offerings were frequent, as well as his exhibi- 




tions of the studies to others. But it seemed as if 
the water-buckets grew daily heavier for him — 
sometimes he would come up to the tents only once 
or twice during the day, and I often saw him rest- 
ing in the shade on the upward path. 

' ; Coolie sick," replied one of my servants who 
had mastered a few words of English, when I asked 
about him. The last time I saw the poor " Miss- 
ing Link," he had toiled up with his buckets and a 
splendid tangle of wild pea-vines, whose large pur- 
ple clusters hung down richly from a mass of green. 
These he brought to me, his face lighting up once 
more as I thanked him, while he looked about at 
the different pictures. Then the usual stolid heavi- 
ness settled over his uncouth features, and heturned 
away, going heavily down the grassy path, and 
around the corner of the old stone wall. He never 
came back again. 

One of my last excursions in the neighborhood 
was a ^Asasaatjinriki-sha ride of five miles to the 
base of a high hill, — or mountain, as it might more 
properly be called, — at the top of which was an 
ancient Buddhist temple to the horse-headed 
Kuwanon, Goddess of Mercy. Leaving our men 
and kurunia below, we began the climb, which, 
although steep, was very lovely, through sunny 
woods full of flowers, past quaint little shrines, 
with constant views of a blue and hazy distance. 

At the top we found the small temple of 1111- 
painted wood, which, standing high up against 
the sky, had long been a familiar landmark from 
the castle. It was richly carved, and weather- 
stained to a silvery gray color. Within, the orna- 
ments were rather cheap and uninteresting, being 
chiefly pictures of horses in every imaginable 
attitude — some fully painted, others merely 
sketched in outline on pine boards. Outside, in 
a shrine, stood a life-sized figure of ahorse. Stone 
lanterns, partly moss-grown, and a large bell 
completed the visible equipment — all of which 
was charmingly overshadowed by fine old Japa- 
nese cedars, which grow to a great height. 

The ministering priest at this lonely altar — a 
man with a cleanly-shaved head and fine face — 
approached us by a shady path, his thin robes of 
black and green catching the welcome breeze. 
My companion wished to purchase one of the 
horse-pictures from the interior as a memento of 
the temple, to which the priest at once consented, 
seeming well pleased with the handful of coin 
which he received for his complaisance. 

When we reached the little town at the foot of 
the mountain, on our homeward way, all the in- 
habitants came out to see us — some offering 
flowers, while an old lady presented us with hot 
ears of roasted sweet-corn on a pretty tray, which 






were very appetizing after our long walk. One 
little boy ran to me, holding out a large locust, 
somewhat like a katydid, which makes a most 
unmelodious screaming, much to the edification 
of its hearers. These little creatures can be 
bought in cages for a few sen, and children often 
keep them as pets. 

Twilight fell during the homeward ride, and 
each coolie lighted his little paper lantern as we 
sped on into the early evening. Against the 

examine us in our various trips, had an expression 
of absorbing interest upon their faces, such as they 
might have worn on seeing some strange but not 
unamiable animal. As long as we appeared not 
to notice their gaze this expression continued. But 
the instant we smiled or showed any conscious- 
ness of their nearness, the faces looked startled, 
smiles disappeared, while curiosity and wide-eyed 
surprise, not unmixed with apprehension, filled 
their features. It was much as if a toy elephant 
should unexpectedly nod or speak. 

As the time for the eclipse drew near, 
the number of visitors to the castle 
greatly increased, and the prep- 
arations, extended through 
long weeks, received their 
final touches. At last 
the 19th of August 
dawned, — "the great, 
the important ,day," 
— ushered in with 
the clearest of skies 
and the most ra- 
diant sunbeams. 
Twenty or thirty of 
the guards, in snowy 
dresses, watched 
the castle and all its 
entrances, and none 
except the specially 
invited guests were 
admitted. The in- 
struments were care- 
fully adjusted for in- 
stant use, and, in 
" spite of the torrid 
heat, we were all 
astir with eager an- 
ticipation. The guests 
quietly gathered in the 
open space below the instru- 
ments, and a subdued hum of 
pleasant conversation filled the hot 
noontide. The eclipse was to begin at 
thirty-seven minutes after two o'clock. About 
an hour before this, a delicate little white cloud 
floated up toward the zenith and spread very 
quietly over the bright, blue sky, until even 
the visitors began to look upward, with some 
fear lest the afternoon might be only partly 
clear after all. And that little white cloud not 
only grew into great size itself, but it was 
limbs of the family, as well as the little china joined by other and darker ones from all direc- 
bowls out of which they were all eating rice, tions, which, as they seemed to gain confidence 
caught the flickering light as it danced in warm from numbers and blackness, soon shut out the 
tints about the poor little room. sun completely and spread consternation over 

The children, who frequently stood in groups to every face around us. The beginning of the 


yellow sky, flat-topped pines stood boldly outlined, 
while nearer by we caught glimpses of many a 
picturesque interior. In these little thatched 
houses a square hole in the polished floor held a 
few sticks burning brightly and casting a ruddy 
light on the surrounding household group. A ket- 
tle hung above the fire, and the brown faces and 


II 7 



eclipse was not seen at all, but we caught a few 
glimpses of the sun afterward — a gradually nar- 
rowing crescent. 

As it became apparent that my part of the work — 
which was to draw the filmy, outermost streamers 
of the corona — could 
not be done, I left my 
appointed station and 
hastened to the upper 
castle wall. Here, 
standing near the in- 
struments, I watched 
the strange landscape 
under its gray shroud. 
Even inanimate things 
seem endowed at times 
with a terrible life of 
their own, and this de- 
liberate, slow-moving 
pall of cloud seemed a 
malignant power, not 
to be evaded. At the 
instant of totality a 
darkness and silence 
like that of death fell 
upon the castle and 
the town and all the 
world around. 

Not a word was 
spoken : the very air 

about us was motionless, as if all nature were in 
sympathy with our suspense. The useless instru- 
ments outlined their fantastic shapes dimly against 
the massing clouds, and a weird chill fell upon the 
earth. Darker and still darker it grew. Every trace 


i iS 



of color fled from the world. Cold, dull ashen-gray 
covered the face of nature ; and a low rumble 
of thunder muttered ominously on the horizon. 
Even at that supreme moment my thoughts 
flew backward over the eight thousand miles of 
land and stormy ocean already traveled, the 
ton of telescopes brought with such care, the 
weeks of patient waiting at the old castle, — all 
that long journey and those great preparations for 
just these three minutes of precious time, which 
were now slipping away so fast. — And already 
they were gone ! One sharp, brilliant ray of sun- 
shine flashed down upon us. Totality was over — 
and lost ! This tiny rift in the clouds showed 

the slender edge of the sun for a second and was 
gone. And a profound sigh, as of great nervous 
tension relieved, came up from the crowd below. 
The calamity was too great to be measured at 
once, and it was some minutes before we cared 
to speak. We had trusted Nature, and she had 
failed us, and our sense of helplessness was over- 

Every astronomical student now knows how the 
track of this ill-fated eclipse was followed by clouds 
all along its course, and how totality and the 
wished-for corona were hidden by clouds from 
nearly all the eager eyes and waiting instruments 
through its entire length. But an astronomer must 






be philosophic; and our astronomer nobly dis- 
played this quality. 

And so, gradually, our visitors left us, and the 
sound of demolishing and packing was heard on 
the hill. The tents were folded, and the party 

I stayed for a few days at lovely Nikko. of 
which the Japanese proverb says, " Let no one 
who has not seen Nikko pronounce the word beau- 
tiful." Here are the tombs of Iyeyasn, the first 
Shogini and founder of Yeddo, and of lyemitsu, 
with innumerable temples, mountains, springs, 
and torrents, and a beauty and verdure of foliage 
almost beyond description. Leading to it from 
the railway station at Utsunomiya is an avenue 
twenty-five miles long, shadowed all the way by 
evergreens, through whose interlacing boughs; 
more than one hundred feet above, the sun- 
beams can scarcely penetrate to the traveler, 
rolling easily along in his jinriki-sha. This 
avenue is a portion of the road by which the old 
daimios, or nobles, used to make their pilgrimages 
•once a year to Nikko, and was built for them 
hundreds of years ago. 

As Professor Todd was to make another expe- 
dition for astronomical observation to the summit 
of Fiiji-san, or Ftiji-yama, the great sacred mount- 
ain, a time only long enough for necessary prep- 
aration was now spent in Tokio. But during those 
few days I saw many interesting things, among 
others a place where the rich and heavy wall- 
papers for which Japan is famous were made. 
The thick paper has the design stamped upon it 
in relief while it is yet white. Over this are laid 
by hand and patted firmly down, small sheets of 
silver foil. When a certain length has been cov- 
ered with the shining leaf, it is taken to another 
room and overlaid with transparent yellow varnish, 
which makes it look like bright, rich gold. If the 
background is to be a different color from the design 
a perforated pattern exactly covering the design is 
laid over it. Upon this the paint is dabbed with 
brushes by young girls standing at a long table. The 
figures being protected, as I have said, the color 
reaches only the background, and the gold leaves or 
flowers or butterflies then stand out clearly upon 
dark red or other color. In a further room more 
young girls were filling up rough edges of the out- 




line with their brushes dipped in the background 
color. When the paint is dry, another coat of 
the clear but most ill-smelling varnish is added, 
and the whole hung up to harden. Many of the 
designs were very rich and decorative, and I was 
interested in seeing several with which I had be- 
come familiar through Japanese papers imported 
into America, and in observing the difference as 
to price and length of roll here and at home. 

After the wonderful trip to the top of Fuji — 
which was an event for a life-time — the remainder 
of our visit in Japan was spent socially and delight- 
fully in the capital and at Yokohama. But all too 
soon our steamer sailed from that fascinating land. 

After picking up somewhere in the gray wastes 
of the Pacific Ocean the day which, as all young 
students of geography will readily understand, we 
had dropped at the iSoth meridian in going over, 
we found ourselves once more in Vancouver, which 
seemed to have grown as with years since we had 
been away. 

The royal mountains were clothed in autumn 
reds and yellows, and it was America ! Even this 
remote corner of British Columbia was home, and 
we sped across its beauties and through all the 
days thereafter, until the satisfaction of the gen- 
eral home-coming became the bright particular 
welcome which warms the heart. 

If I 'd been born across the seas, 
In a little house of clean bamboo, 
Among the flowering cherry-trees; — 
If I 'd been fed on fish and rice, 
The queerest nuts that ever grew, 
And all the different sorts of teas ; — 
If I 'd been used to a jinriki-sha, 
And never seen a railroad car, 
Perhaps it would n't seem so nice 
To be a Japanese ! 

But " Mary Jane " does sound so plain, 
Compared with " Neo Ina Yan"; 
And such a place as " Jones's Creek " 
(That 's where I live and must remain) 
Could not be found in all Japan ! 

Instead of " Pike's " or " Skinner's Peak," 
Of Fuji-yama there they speak — 
The Sacred Mountain by the seas. 
How elegant geographies 
Must be in Japanese ! 

We have such very common things, 

Like pigs in pens, and coops of hens, 

Round corner-stores that smell of cheese ; 

While they have storks, with spreading wings, 

That live among the reedy fens. 

Their girls have paper parasols 

And painted fans, as well as dolls ; 

They wade in flowers to their knees, 

And live a life of joyous ease, 

The happy Japanese. 




■■ .'.' .•.-'; ' |' 




Yet Mamma would n't be the same 
With beady eyes and funny name, 
And might not care so much for me. 
And — come to think — they never can 
Have any Christmas in Japan ! 
They worship curiosities, 

Great metal idols, made by man 
About the time the world began. 
So, on the whole, I'd rather be 
A little, plain American ; — 
An imitation, if you please, 
Not truly Japanese. 

By Hjalmar H. Boyesen. 

one great question 
which Albert Grim- 
lund was debating 
was fraught with un- 
pleasant possibilities. 
He could not go 
home for the Christ- 
mas vacation, for his 
father lived in Dront- 
heim, which is so far 
away from Christi- 
ania, that it was scarcely worth while making the 
journey for a mere two-weeks' holiday. Then, 
on the other hand, he had an old great-aunt 
who lived but a few miles from the city and 
who, from conscientious motives, he feared, had 
sent him an invitation to pass Christmas with 
her. But he thought Aunt Elsbeth a very tedious 
person. She had a dozen cats, talked of nothing 
but sermons and lessons, and asked him occasion- 
ally, with pleasant humor, whether he got many 
whippings at school. She failed to comprehend 
that a boy could not amuse himself forever by 
looking at the pictures in the old family Bible, 
holding yarn, and listening to oft-repeated stories, 
which he knew by heart, concerning the doings 
and sayings of his grandfather. Aunt Elsbeth, 
after a previous experience with her nephew, 
had come to regard boys as rather a reprehen- 
sible kind of animal, who differed in many of 
their ways from girls, and altogether to the bovs' 

Now, the prospect of being "caged" for two 
weeks with this estimable lady was, as I said, not 
at all pleasant to Albert. He was sixteen years 
old, loved outdoor sports, and had no taste for cats. 
His chief pride was his muscle, and no boy ever 
made his acquaintance without being invited to 
feel the size and hardness of his biceps. This was 
a standing joke in the Latin-school, and Albert 
was generally known among his companions as 

" Biceps " Grimlund. He was not very tall for his 
age, but broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with 
something in his glance, his gait, and his manners 
which showed that he had been born and bred 
near the sea. He cultivated a weather-beaten com- 
plexion, and was particularly proud when the skin 
" peeled " on his nose, which it usually did in the 
summer-time during his visit to his home in the 
extreme north. Like most blonde people, when sun- 
burnt he was red, not brown ; and this became a 
source of great satisfaction, when he learned that 
Lord Nelson had the same peculiarity. Albert's 
favorite books were the sea romances of Captain 
Marryat, whose "Peter Simple" and "Midship- 
man Easy " he held to be the noblest products of 
human genius. It was a bitter disappointment to 
him that his father forbade his going to sea and 
was educating him to be a " landlubber," which he 
had been taught by his boy associates to regard as 
the most contemptible thing on earth. 

Two days before Christmas, Biceps Grimlund 
was sitting in his room, looking gloomily out of the 
window. He wished to postpone as long as possi- 
ble his departure for Aunt Elsbeth's country-place, 
for he foresaw that both he and she were doomed 
to a surfeit of each other's company during the 
coming fortnight. At last he heaved a deep 
sigh and languidly began to pack his trunk. He 
had just disposed the dear Marryat books on top 
of his starched shirts when he heard rapid foot- 
steps on the stairs, and the next moment the door 
burst open, and his classmate Ralph Hoyer rushed 
breathlessly into the room. 

"Biceps," he cried, "look at this! Here is 
a letter from my father, and he tells me to invite 
one of my classmates to come home with me for 
the vacation. Will you come ? Oh, we shall have 
grand times, I tell you ! No end of fun ! " 

Albert, instead of answering, jumped up and 
danced a jig on the floor, upsetting two chairs 
and breaking the pitcher. 



" Hurrah!" he cried, " I 'm your man. Shake 
hands on it, Ralph ! You have saved me from 
two weeks of cats and yarn and moping! Give us 
your paw ! I never was so glad to see anybody in 
all my life." 

And to prove it, he seized Ralph by the shoulders, 
gave him a vigorous whirl and forced him to join in 
the dance. 

"Now, stop your nonsense," Ralph protested, 
laughing ; " if you have so much strength to waste, 
wait till we are home in Solheim, and you '11 have 
opportunities to use it profitably." 

Albert flung himself down on his old rep- 
covered sofa. It seemed to have some internal 
disorder, for its springs rattled and a vague mu- 
sical twang indicated that something or other had 
snapped. It had seen much maltreatment, that 
poor old piece of furniture, and bore visible marks 
of it. When, after various exhibitions of joy, their 
boisterous delight had quieted down, both boys 
began to discuss their plans for the vacation. 

" But I fear my groom may freeze, down there 
in the street," Ralph ejaculated, cutting short the 
discussion; " it is bitter cold, and he can't leave 
the horses. Hurry up, now, old man, and I '11 
help you pack." 

It did not take them long to complete the pack- 
ing. Albert sent a telegram to his father, asking 
permission to accept Ralph's invitation, but, know- 
ing well that the reply would be favorable, did not 
think it necessary to wait for it. With the assist- 
ance of his friend he now wrapped himself in two 
overcoats, pulled a pair of thick woolen stockings 
over the outside of his boots and a pair of fur- 
lined top-boots outside of these, girded himself 
with three long scarfs, and pulled his brown otter- 
skin cap down over his ears. He was nearly as 
broad as he was long when he had completed 
these operations, and descended into the street 
where the big double-sleigh (made in the shape 
of a huge white swan) was awaiting them. They 
now called at Ralph's lodgings, whence he presently 
emerged in a similar Esquimau costume, wearing a 
wolf-skin coat which left nothing visible except the 
tip of his nose and the steam of his breath. Then 
they started off merrily with jingling bells, and 
waved a farewell toward many a window wherein 
were friends and acquaintances. They felt in so 
jolly a mood that they could not help shouting 
their joy in the face of all the world, and crowing 
over all poor wretches who were left to spend the 
holidays in the city. 


Solheim was about twenty miles from the city, 
and it was nine o'clock in the evening when the 

boys arrived there. The moon was shining 
brightly, and the milky way, with its myriad stars, 
looked like a luminous mist across the vault of the 
sky. The aurora borealis swept down from the 
north with white and pink radiations which flushed 
the dark blue sky for an instant, and vanished. 
The earth was white, as far as the eye could 
reach — splendidly, dazzlingly white. And out on 
the white radiance rose the great dark pile of 
masonry, called Solheim, with its tall chimneys 
and dormer windows and old-fashioned gables. 
Round about stood the great leafless maples and 
chestnut-trees, sparkling with frost and stretching 
their gaunt arms against the heavens. The two 
horses, when they swung up before the great front 
door, were so white with hoar-frost that they looked 
shaggy like goats, and no one could tell what was 
their original color. Their breath was blown in two 
vapory columns from their nostrils and drifted 
about their heads like steam about a locomotive. 

The sleigh-bells had announced the arrival of 
the guests, and a great shout of welcome was heard 
from the hall of the house, which seemed alive with 
grown-up people and children. Ralph jumped out 
of the sleigh, embraced at random half a dozen peo- 
ple, one of whom was his mother, kissed right and 
left, protesting laughingly against being smothered 
in affection, and finally managed to introduce his 
friend, who for the moment was feeling a trifle 

" Here, Father," he cried. " Biceps, this is my 
father; and, Father, this is my Biceps " 

"Why, what stuff you are talking, boy," his 
father exclaimed. "How can this young fellow 
be your biceps " 

" Well, how can a man keep his senses in such 
confusion?" said the son of the house. "This is 
my friend and classmate, Albert Grimlund, alias 
Biceps Grimlund, and the strongest man in the 
whole school. Just feel his biceps, Mother, and 
you '11 see." 

" No, I thank you. 1 '11 take your word for it," 
replied Mrs. Hoyer. " Since I intend to treat him 
as a friend of my son should be treated, I hope 
he will not feel inclined to offer any proof of his 

When, with the aid of the younger children, 
the travelers had peeled off their various wraps 
and overcoats, as an onion is peeled, they were 
ushered into the old-fashioned sitting-room. In 
one corner roared an enormous, many-storied, iron 
stove. It had a picture in relief, on one side, of 
Diana the Huntress, with her nymphs and baying 
hounds. In the middle of the room stood a big table 
and in the middle of the table a big lamp, about 
which the entire family soon gathered. It was so 
cosy and homelike that Albert, before he had been 




half an hour in the room, felt gratefully the atmos- 
phere of mutual affection which pervaded the 
house. It amused him particularly to watch the 
little girls, of whom there were six, and to observe 
their profound admiration for their big brother. 
Every now and then one of them, sidling up to him 
while he sat talking, would cautiously touch his 
ear or a curl of his hair ; and if he deigned to take 
any notice of her, offering her, perhaps, a per- 
functory kiss, her pride and pleasure were charm- 
ing to witness. 

Presently the signal was given that supper was 
ready, and various savory odors, which escaped, 
whenever a door was opened, served to arouse 
the anticipations of the boys to the highest pitch. 
Now, if I did not have so much else to tell you, I 
should stop here and describe that supper. There 
were twenty-two people who sat down to it ; but 
that was nothing unusual at Solheim, for it was 
a hospitable house, where every wayfarer was wel- 
come, either to the table in the servants' hall or to 
the master's table in the dining-room. 


At the stroke of ten, all the family arose, and 
each in turn kissed the father and mother good- 
night ; whereupon Mr. Hoyer took the great lamp 
from the table and mounted the stairs, followed 
by his pack of noisy boys and girls. Albert and 
Ralph found themselves, with four smaller Hoyers, 
in an enormous low-ceiled room with many 
windows. In three corners stood huge canopied 
bedsteads, with flowered- chintz curtains and moun- 
tainous eider-down coverings which swelled up to- 
ward the ceiling. In the middle of the wall, 
opposite the windows, a big iron stove, like the 
one in the sitting-room (only that it was adorned 
with a bunch of flowers, peaches, and grapes, and 
not with Diana and her nymphs), was roaring 
merrily, and sending a long red sheen from its 
draught-hole across the floor. 

Around the great warm stove the boys gathered 
(for it was positively Siberian in the region of the win- 
dows), and while undressing played various pranks 
upon each other, which created much merriment. 
But the most laughter was provoked at the expense 
of Finn Hoyer, a boy of fifteen, whose bare back his 
brother insisted upon exhibiting to his guest ; for it 
was decorated with a fac-simile of the picture on 
the stove, showing roses and luscious peaches and 
grapes in red relief. Three years before, on Christ- 
mas Eve, the boys had stood about the red-hot 
stove, undressing for their bath, and Finn, who was 
naked, had, in the general scrimmage to get first 
into the bath-tub, been pushed against the glowing 
iron, the ornamentation of which had been beauti- 

* Norwegian snow-shoes. See 

fully burned upon his back. He had to be wrapped 
in oil and cotton after that adventure, and he re- 
covered in due time, but never quite relished the 
distinction he had acquired by his pictorial skin. 

It was long before Albert fell asleep ; for the 
cold kept up a continual fusillade, as of musketry, 
during the entire night. The woodwork of the 
walls snapped and cracked with loud reports ; and 
a little after midnight a servant came in and stuffed 
the stove full of birch-wood, until it roared like an 
angry lion. This roar finally lulled Albert to sleep, 
in spite of the startling noises about him. 

The next morning the boys were aroused at 
seven o'clock by a servant who brought a tray with 
the most fragrant coffee and hot rolls. It was in 
honor of the guest that, in accordance with Norse 
custom, this early meal was served ; and all the 
boys, carrying pillows and blankets, gathered on 
Albert's and Ralph's bed and feasted right roy- 
ally. So it seemed to them, at least ; for any break 
in the ordinary routine, be it ever so slight, is an 
event to the young. Then they had a pillow-fight, 
thawed at the stove the water in the pitchers 
(for it was frozen hard), and arrayed themselves to 
descend and meet the family at the nine o'clock 
breakfast. When this repast was at an end, the 
question arose, how they were to entertain their 
guest, and various plans were proposed. But to 
all Ralph's propositions his mother interposed the 
objection that it was too cold. 

"Mother is right," said Mr. Hoyer; "it is so 
cold that ' the chips jump on the hill-side.' You '11 
have to be content with indoor sports to-day." 

" But, Father, it is not more than twenty degrees 
below zero," the boy demurred. "I am sure we 
can stand that, if we keep in motion. I have been 
out at thirty without losing either ears or nose." 

He went to the window to observe the thermome- 
ter ; but the dim daylight scarcely penetrated the 
fantastic frost-crystals which, like a splendid exotic 
flora, covered the panes. Only at the upper cor- 
ner, where the ice had commenced to thaw, a few 
timid sunbeams were peeping in, making the lamp 
upon the table seem pale and sickly. Whenever 
the door to the hall was opened a white cloud of 
vapor rolled in ; and every one made haste to shut 
the door, in order to save the precious heat. The 
boys, being doomed to remain indoors, walked 
about restlessly, felt each other's muscle, punched 
each other, and sometimes, for want of better em- 
ployment, teased the little girls. Mr. Hoyer, see- 
ing how miserable they were, finally took pity on 
them, and, after having thawed out a window- 
pane sufficiently to see the thermometer outside, 
gave his consent to a little expedition on s/cees* 
down to the river. 

And now boys, you ought to have seen them I 
St. Nicholas, Vol. X., p. 304. 



Now there was life in them ! You would scarcely 
have dreamed that they were the same creatures 
who, a moment ago, looked so listless and miser- 
able. What rollicking laughter and fun, while 
they bundled one another in scarfs, cardigan-jack- 
ets, -fur-lined top-boots, and overcoats! 

" You had better take your guns along, boys," 
said the father, as they stormed out through the 
frontdoor; "you might strike a bevy of ptarmi- 
gan, or a mountain-cock, over on the west side." 

"I am going to take your rifle, if you'll let 
me," Ralph exclaimed. " I have a fancy we 
might strike bigger game than mountain-cock. I 
should n't object to a wolf or two." 

" You are welcome to the rifle," said his father ; 
"but I doubt whether you '11 find wolves on the 
ice so early in the day." 

Mr. Hoyer took the rifle from its case, exam- 
ined it carefully, and handed it to Ralph. Albert, 
who was a less experienced hunter than Ralph, 
preferred a fowling-piece to the rifle ; especially as 
he had no expectation of shooting anything but 
ptarmigan. Powder-horns, cartridges, and shot 
were provided ; and quite proudly the two friends 
started off on their skees, gliding over the hard 
crust of the snow, which, as the sun rose higher, 
was oversown with thousands of glittering gems. 
The boys looked like Esquimaux, with their heads 
bundled up in scarfs, and nothing visible except 
their eyes and a few hoary locks of hair which the 
frost had silvered. 


" WHAT was that?" cried Albert, startled by a 
sharp report which reverberated from the mount- 
ains. They had penetrated the forest on the west 
side, and ranged over the ice for an hour, in a 
vain search for wolves. 

" Hush," said Ralph, excitedly ; and after a 
moment of intent listening he added, " I '11 be 
drawn and quartered if it is n't poachers ! " 

" How do you know ? " 

"These woods belong to Father, and no one 
else has any right to hunt in them. He does n't 
mind if a poor man kills a hare or two, or a brace 
of ptarmigan ; but these chaps are after elk ; and 
if the old gentleman gets on the scent of elk- 
hunters, he has no more mercy than Beelzebub." 

" How can you know that they are after elk? " 

" No man is likely to go to the woods for small 
game on a day like this. They think the cold 
protects them from pursuit and capture." 

" What are you going to do about it?" 

" I am going to play a trick on them. You know 
that the sheriff, whose duty it is to be on the look- 
out for elk-poachers, would scarcely send out a posse 

when the cold is so intense. Elk, you know, are be- 
coming very scarce, and the law protects them. No 
man is allowed to shoot more than one elk a year, 
and that one on his own property. Now, you and 
I will play deputy-sheriffs, and have those poachers 
securely in the lock-up before night." 

" But suppose they fight ? " 

" Then we '11 fight back." 

Ralph was so aglow with joyous excitement at 
the thought of this adventure, that Albert had not 
the heart to throw cold water on his enthusiasm. 
Moreover, he was afraid of being thought cow- 
ardly by his friend if he offered objections. The 
recollection of " Midshipman Easy" and his dar- 
ing pranks flashed through his brain, and he felt 
an instant desire to rival the exploits of his favor- 
ite hero. If only the enterprise had been on the 
sea he would have been twice as happy, for the 
land always seemed to him a prosy and inconven- 
ient place for the exhibition of heroism. 

"But, Ralph," he exclaimed, now more than 
ready to bear his part in the expedition, " 1 have 
only shot in my gun. You can't shoot men with 

"Shoot men! Are you crazy? Why, I don't 
intend to shoot anybody. I only wish to capture 
them. My rifle is a breech-loader and has six 
cartridges. Besides, it has twice the range of 
theirs (for there is n't another such rifle in all 
Odalen), and by firing one shot over their heads 1 
can bring them to terms, don't you see ? " 

Albert, to be frank, did not see it exactly ; but 
he thought it best to suppress his doubts. He 
scented danger in the air, and the blood bounded 
through his veins. 

" How do you expect to track them ? " he asked, 

" Skee-tracks in the snow can be seen by a 
bat, born blind," answered Ralph, recklessly. 

They were now climbing up the wooded slope 
on the western side of the river. The crust of the 
frozen snow was strong enough to bear them ; and 
as it was not glazed, but covered with an inch of 
hoar-frost, it retained the imprint of their feet with 
distinctness. They were obliged to carry their 
skees, on account both of the steepness of the slope 
and the density of the underbrush. Roads and 
paths were invisible under the wh ite pall of the snow, 
and only the facility with which they could retrace 
their steps saved them from the fear of going astray. 
Through the vast forest a deathlike silence reigned ; 
and this silence was not made up of an infinity of 
tiny sounds, like the silence of a summer day 
when the crickets whirr in the tree-tops and the 
bees drone in the clover-blossoms. No ; this silence 
was dead, chilling, terrible. The huge pine-trees 
now and then dropped a load of snow on the 




heads of the bold intruders, and it fell with a thud, 
followed by a noiseless, glittering drizzle. As far 
as their eyes could reach, the monotonous colonnade 
of brown tree-trunks, rising out of the white waste, 
extended in all directions. It reminded them of 
the enchanted forest in " Undine," through which 
a man might ride forever without finding the end. 
It was a great relief when, from time to time, they 
met a squirrel out foraging for pine-cones or pick- 
ing up a scanty living among the husks of last 
year's hazel-nuts. He was lively in spite of the 
weather, and the faint noises of his small activities 
fell gratefully upon ears already appalled by the 
awful silence. Occasionally they scared up a 
brace of grouse that seemed half benumbed, and 
hopped about in a melancholy manner under the 
pines, or a magpie, drawing in its head and ruf- 
fling up its feathers against the cold, until it looked 
frowsy and disreputable. 

"Biceps," whispered Ralph, who had suddenly 
discovered something interesting in the snow, "do 
you see that ? " 

" Je-rusalem ! " ejaculated Albert, with thought- 
less delight, " it is a hoof-track ! " 

" Hold your tongue, you blockhead," warned 
his friend, too excited to be polite, "or you'll 
spoil the whole business ! " 

"But you asked me," protested Albert, in a 

" But I did n't shout, did I ? " 

Again the report of a shot tore a great rent in 
the wintry stillness and rang out with sharp rever- 

" We 've got them," said Ralph, examining the 
lock of his rifle. "That shot settles them." 

" If we don't look out, they may get us instead," 
grumbled Albert, who was still offended. 

Ralph stood peering into the underbrush, his 
eyes as wild as those of an Indian, his nostrils di- 
lated, and all his senses intensely awake. His 
companion, who was wholly unskilled in wood- 
craft, could see no cause for his agitation, and 
feared that he was yet angry. He did not detect 
the evidences of large game in the immediate 
neighborhood. He did not see, by the bend of 
the broken twigs and the small tufts of hair on the 
briar-bush, that an elk had pushed through that 
very copse within a few minutes ; nor did he sniff 
the gamy odor with which the large beast had 
charged the air. In obedience to his friend's ges- 
ture, he flung himself down on hands and knees 
and cautiously crept after him through the thicket. 
He now saw without difficult}' a place where the 
elk had broken through the snow crust, and he 
could also detect a certain aimless bewilderment in 
the tracks, owing, no doubt, to the shot and the 
animal's perception of danger on two sides. 

Scarcely had he crawled twenty feet when he was 
startled by a noise of breaking branches, and be- 
fore he had time to cock his gun, he saw an enor- 
mous bull-elk tearing through the underbrush, 
blowing two columns of steam from his nostrils, 
and steering straight toward them. At the :ame 
instant Ralph's rifle blazed away, and the splendid 
beast, rearing on its hind legs, gave a wild snort, 
plunged forward and rolled on its side in the snow. 
Quick as a flash, the young hunter had drawn his 
knife and, in accordance with the laws of the 
chase, had driven it into the breast of the dying 
animal. But the glance from the dying eyes, — 
that glance, of which every elk-hunter can tell a 
moving tale, — pierced the boy to the very heart! 
It was such a touching, appealing, imploring 
glance, so soft, and gentle, and unresentful. 

"Why did you harm me," it seemed to say, 
"who never harmed any living thing — who claimed 
only the right to live my frugal life in the forest, 
digging up the frozen mosses under the snow, 
which no mortal creature except myself can eat?" 

The sanguinary instinct — the fever for killing 
which every boy inherits from savage ancestors — 
had left Ralph, before he had pulled the knife from 
the bleeding wound. A miserable feeling of guilt 
stole over him. He never had shot an elk before ; 
and his father, who was anxious to preserve the 
noble beasts from destruction, had not availed him- 
self of his right to kill one for many years. Ralph 
had, indeed, many a time hunted rabbits, hares, 
and mountain-cock, and capercailzie. But they 
had never destroyed his pleasure by arousing pity 
for their deaths ; and he had always regarded him- 
self as being proof against sentimental emotions. 

" Look here, Biceps," he said, flinging the knife 
into the snow, " I wish I had n't killed that bull." 

" I thought we were hunting for poachers," an- 
swered Albert dubiously ; " and now we have been 
poaching ourselves." 

" By Jiminy ! So we have ; and I never once 
thought of it," cried the valiant hunter. " I am 
afraid we are off my father's preserves, too. It is 
well the deputy-sheriffs are not abroad, or we might 
find ourselves decorated with iron bracelets before 

" But what did you do it for ? " 

"Well, I can't tell. It's in the blood, I guess. 
The moment I saw the track and caught the wild 
smell, I forgot all about the poachers, and started 
on the scent like a hound." 

The two boys stood for some minutes looking at 
the dead animal, not with savage exultation, but 
with a dull regret. The blood which was gushing 
from the wound in the breast froze in a solid lump 
the very moment it touched the snow, although 
the cold had greatly moderated since the morning. 



" I suppose we '11 have to skin the fellow,'' 
remarked Ralph, lugubriously ; " it won't do to 
leave that fine carcass for the wolves to celebrate 
Christmas with." 

'■ All right," Albert answered, " I am not much 
of a hand at skinning, but I '11 do the best I can." 

They fell to work rather reluctantly at the un- 
wonted task, but had not proceeded far, when they 

that '11 curdle the marrow of your bones with 

'' Thanks," replied the admirer of Midship- 
man Easy, striking a reckless naval attitude. 
" The marrow of my bones is not so easily curdled. 
I 've been on a whaling voyage, which is more than 
you have." 

Ralph was about to vindicate his dignity by re- 


perceived that they had a full day's job before 

" I 've no talent for the butcher's trade," Ralph 
exclaimed in disgust, dropping his knife into the 
snow. "There's no help for it, Biceps, we'll 
have to bury the carcass, pile some logs on the top 
of it, and send a horse to drag it home to-morrow. 
If it were not Christmas Eve to-night we might 
take a couple of men along and shoot a dozen 
wolves or more. For there is sure to be pande- 
monium here before long, and a concert in G-flat 

ferring to his own valiant exploits, when suddenly 
his keen eyes detected a slight motion in the un- 
derbrush on the slope below. 

"Biceps," he said, with forced composure, 
"those poachers are tracking us." 

" What do you mean?" asked Albert, in vague 

" Do vou see the top of that young birch 
waving ? " 

" Well, what of that?" 

" Wait and see. It 's no good trying to escape. 




They can easily overtake us. The snow is the 
worst tell-tale under the sun." 

" But why should we wish to escape ? I thought 
we were going to catch them." 

"So we were; but that was before we turned 
poachers ourselves. Now those fellows will turn 
the tables on us — take us to the sheriff and col- 
lect half the fine, which is fifty dollars, as in- 

" Je-rusalem ! " cried Biceps, " is n't it a beauti- 
ful scrape we 've put ourselves into ? " 

" Rather," responded his friend, coolly. 

" But why meekly allow ourselves to be cap- 
tured? Why not defend ourselves ?" 

" My dear Biceps, you don't know what you are 
talking about. Those fellows don't mind putting 
a bullet into you, if you run. Now, I 'd rather pay 
fifty dollars any day, than to shoot a man even in 

" But they have killed elk, too. We heard them 
shoot twice. Suppose we play the same game on 
them that they intend to play on us. We can 
play informers, too. Then we '11 at least be quits." 

" Biceps, you are a brick ! That 's a capital 
idea ! Then let us start for the sheriff's ; and if we 
get there first, we '11 inform both on ourselves and 
on them. That '11 cancel the fine. Quick, now ! " 

No persuasions were needed to make Albert 
bestir himself. He leaped toward his skees, and 
following his friend, who was a few rods ahead 
of him, started down the slope in a zigzag line, 
cautiously steering his way among the tree trunks. 
The boys had taken their departure none too 
soon ; for they were scarcely five hundred yards 
down the declivity, when they heard behind them 
loud exclamations and oaths. Evidently the poach- 
ers had stopped to roll some logs (which were 
lying close by) over the carcass, probably mean- 
ing to appropriate it ; and this gave the boys an 
advantage of which they were in great need. 
After a few moments they espied an open clear- 
ing, which sloped steeply down toward the river. 
Toward this Ralph had been directing his course ; 
for although it was a venturesome undertaking to 
slide down so steep and rugged a hill, he was 
determined rather to break his neck than lower 
his pride, or become the laughing-stock of the 

One more tack through alder copse and juni- 
per jungle, — hard indeed, and terribly vexa- 
tious, — and he saw with delight the great open 
slope, covered with an unbroken surface of glitter- 
ing snow. The sun (which at midwinter is but a 
few hours above the horizon) had set ; and the stars 
were flashing forth with dazzling brilliancy. Ralph 
stopped, as he reached the clearing, to give Biceps 
an opportunity to overtake him ; for Biceps, like 

all marine animals, moved with less dexterity on 
the dry land. 

"Ralph," he whispered breathlessly, as he 
pushed himself up to his companion with a vigor- 
ous thrust of his skee-staff, " there arc two awful 
chaps close behind us. I distinctly heard them 

"Fiddlesticks," said Ralph; "now let us see 
what you are made of ! Don't take my track, or 
you may impale me like a roast on a spit. Now, 
ready ! — one, two, three ! " 

" Hold on there, or I shoot," yelled a hoarse 
voice from out of the underbrush ; but it was 
too late ; for at the same instant the two boys 
slid out over the steep slope, and, wrapped in a 
whirl of loose snow, were scudding at a dizzying 
speed down the precipitous hillside. Thump, 
thump, thump, they went, where hidden wood- 
piles or fences obstructed their path, and out they 
shot into space, but each time came down firmly 
on their feet, and dashed ahead with undiminished 
ardor. Their calves ached, the cold air whistled 
in their ears, and their eyelids became stiff and 
their sight half obscured with the hoar-frost that 
fringed their lashes. But downward they sped, 
keeping their balance with wonderful skill, until 
they reached the gentler slope which formed the 
banks of the great river. Then for the first time 
Ralph had an opportunity to look behind him, and 
he saw two moving whirls of snow darting down- 
ward, not far from his own track. His heart beat 
in his throat ; for those fellows had both endurance 
and skill, and he feared that he was no match for 
them. But suddenly — he could have yelled with 
delight — the foremost figure leaped into the air, 
turned a tremendous somersault, and, coming 
down on his head, broke through the crust of the 
snow and vanished, while the skees started on an 
independent journey down the hillside. He had 
struck an exposed fence-rail which, abruptly check- 
ing his speed, had sent him flying like a rocket. 

The other poacher had barely time to change 
his course, so as to avoid the snag ; but he was 
unable to stop and render assistance to his fallen 
comrade. The boys, just as they were shooting 
out upon the ice, saw by his motions that he was 
hesitating whether or not he should give up the 
chase. He used his staff as a brake, for a few 
moments, so as to retard his speed ; but discover- 
ing, perhaps by the brightening starlight, that his 
adversaries were not full-grown men, he took cour- 
age, started forward again, and tried to make up 
the ground he had lost. If he could but reach the 
sheriff's house before the boys did, he could have 
them arrested and collect the informer's fee, instead 
of being himself arrested and fined as a poacher. 
It was a prize worth racing for ! And, moreover, 



there were two elks, worth 
twenty-five dollars apiece, 
buried in the snow under 
logs. These also would be- 
long to the victor ! The 
poacher dashed ahead, strain- 
ing every nerve, and reached 
safely the foot of the steep 
declivity. The boys were 
now but a few hundred rods 
ahead of him. 

" Hold on, there," he 
yelled again, "or I shoot ! " 

He was not within range, 
but he thought he could 
frighten the youngsters into 
abandoning the race. The 
sheriff's house was but a short 
distance up the river. Its tall, 
black chimneys could be seen 
looming up against the starlit 
sky. There was no slope now 
to accelerate their speed. 
They had to peg away for 
dear life, pushing themselves 
forward with their skee- 
staves, laboring like plow- 
horses, panting, snorting, 
perspiring. Ralph turned 
his head once more. The 
poacher was gaining upon 
them ; there could be no 
doubt of it. He was within 
the range of Ralph's rifle ; 
and a sturdy fellow he was, 
who seemed good for a couple 
of miles yet. Should Ralph 
send a bullet over his head 
to frighten him? No; that 
might give the poacher an 
excuse for sending back a 
bullet with a less innocent 
purpose. Poor Biceps, he 
was panting and puffing in 
his heavy wraps like a small 
steamboat ! He did not once 
open his mouth to speak; 
but, exerting his vaunted 
muscle to the utmost, kept 
abreast of his friend, and 
sometimes pushed a pace or 
two ahead of him. But it 
cost him a mighty effort ! 
And yet the poacher was 
gaining upon them ! They 
could see the long broadside 
of windows in the sheriff's 

Vol. XVI.— q. 

'wrapped in a whirl of loose snow, they WERE SCX'DDING at a dizzying 




mansion, ablaze with Christmas candles. They 
came nearer and nearer ! The church-bells up 
on the bend were ringing in the festival. Five 
minutes more and they would be at their goal. 
Five minutes more ! Surely they had left 
strength enough for that small space of time. 
So had the poacher, probably ! The question 
was, which had the most. Then, with a short, 
sharp resonance, followed by a long reverbera- 
tion, a shot rang out and a bullet whizzed past 
Ralph's ear. It was the poacher who had broken 
the peace. Ralph, his blood boiling with wrath, 
came to a sudden stop, flung his rifle to his cheek 
and cried, " Drop that gun ! " 

The poacher, bearing down with all his might 
on the skee-staff. checked his speed. In the mean 
while Albert hurried on, seeing that the issue of 
the race depended upon him. 

" Don't force me to hurt ye ! " shouted the 
poacher, threateningly, to Ralph, taking aim once 

"You can't," Ralph shouted back. "You 
have n't another shot." 

At that instant sounds of sleigh-bells and voices 
were heard, and half a dozen people, startled by 
the shot, were seen rushing out from the sheriff's 
mansion. Among them were Mr. Bjornerud him- 
self, the sheriff, with one of his deputies. 

" In the name of the Law, I command you to 
cease," he cried, when he saw down on the ice the 
two figures in menacing attitudes. But before he 
could say another word, some one fell prostrate in 
the road before him, gasping : 

" We have shot an elk ; so has that man down 
on the ice. We give ourselves up." 

Mr. Bjornerud, making no answer, leaped over 
the prostrate figure, and, followed by the deputy, 
dashed down upon the ice. 

" In the name of the Law ! " he shouted again, 
and both rifles were reluctantly lowered. 

" I have shot an elk," cried Ralph, eagerly, 
" and this man is a poacher. We heard him 

" I have killed an elk," screamed the poacher, 
in the same moment, " and so has this fellow." 

The sheriff was too astonished to speak. Never 
before, in his experience, had poachers raced for 
dear life to give themselves into custody. He 
feared that they were making sport of him ; in 
that case, however, he resolved to make them 
suffer for their audacity. 

" You are my prisoners," he said, after a mo- 
ment's hesitation. "Take them to the lock-up, 
Olsen, and handcuff them securely," he added, 
turning to his deputy. 

There were now a dozen men — most of them 
guests and attendants of the sheriffs household — 

standing in a ring about Ralph and the poacher. 
Albert, too, had scrambled to his feet and had 
joined his comrade. 

" Will you permit me, Mr. Sheriff," said Ralph, 
making the officer his politest bow, " to send a 
message to my father, who is probably anxious 
about us? " 

" And who is your father, young man ?" asked 
the sheriff, not unkindly; "I should think you 
were doing him an ill-turn in taking to poaching 
at your early age." 

" My father is Mr. Hoyer, of Solheim," said the 
boy, not without some pride in the announcement. 

"What — you rascal, you! Are you trying to 
play pranks on an old man?" cried the officer 
of the law, grasping Ralph cordially by the hand. 
" You 've grown to be quite a man, since I saw you 
last. Pardon me for not recognizing the son of an 
old neighbor." 

" Allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. 
Biceps — I mean, Mr. Albert Grimlund." 

" Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Biceps 
Albert ; and now you both must come and eat 
the Christmas porridge with us. I '11 send a mes- 
senger to Mr. Hoyer without delay." 

The sheriff, in a jolly mood, and happy to have 
added to the number of his Christmas guests, took 
each of the two young men by the arm, as if he were 
going to arrest them, and conducted them through 
the spacious front hall into a large cosy room, 
where, having divested themselves of their wraps, 
they told the story of their adventure. 

"But, my dear sir," Mr. Bjornerud exclaimed, 
" I don't see how you managed to go beyond your 
father's preserves. You know he bought of me 
the whole forest tract, adjoining his own on the 
south, about three months ago. So you were per- 
fectly within your rights ; for your father has n't 
killed an elk on his land for ten years." 

" If that is the case, Mr. Sheriff," said Ralph, 
" I must beg of you to release the poor fellow who 
chased us. I don't wish any informer's fee, nor 
have I any desire to get him into trouble." 

" I am sorry to say I can't accommodate you," 1 
Bjornerud replied. "This man is a notorious 
poacher and trespasser, whom my deputies have 
long been tracking in vain. Now I have him, I 
shall keep him. There 's no elk safe in Odalen so- 
long as that rascal is at large." 

" That may be ; but I shall then turn my inform- 
er's fee over to him, which will reduce his fine from 
fifty dollars to twenty-five dollars." 

" To encourage him to continue poaching?" 

" Well, I confess I have a little more sympa- 
thy with poachers, since we came so near being 
poachers ourselves. It was only an accident that 
saved us ! " 


(A Little Rhymed Story.) 

By Susan Coolidge. 

The wind was blowing Over the moors, 

And the sun shone bright upon heather and 
On the grave-stones hoary and gray with age 
Which stand about Haworth vicarage, 
And it streamed through a window in. 

There, by herself, in a lonely room — 

A lonely room which once held three — 
Sat a woman at work with a busy pen, 
'T was the woman all England praised just then ■ 
But what for its praise cared she? 

Fame cannot dazzle or flattery charm 

One who goes lonely day by day 
On the lonely moors, where the plovers cry, 
And the sobbing wind as it hurries by 

Has no comforting word to say. 

So, famous and lonely and sad she sat, 
And steadily wrote the morning through ; 

Then, at stroke of twelve, laid her task aside 

And out to the kitchen swiftly hied. 
Now what was she going to do ? 

Why, Tabby, the servant, was " past her work," 

And her eyes had failed as her strength ran low, 
And the toils, once easy, had one by one 
Become too hard, or were left half-done 
By the aged hands and slow. 

So, every day, without saying a word, 

Her famous mistress laid down the pen, 
Re-kneaded the bread, or silently stole 
The potatoes away in their wooden bowl, 
And pared them all over again. 

She did not say, as she might have done, 
" The less to the larger must give way, 
These things are little, while I am great; 
And the world will not always stand and wait 
For the words that I have to say." 

No ; the clever fingers that wrought so well, 

And the eyes that could pierce to the heart's 

She lent to the humble task and small ; 

Nor counted the time as lost at all, 
So Tabby were but content ! 

Ah, genius burns like a blazing star, 

And Fame has an honeyed urn to fill ; 
But the good deed done for love, not fame, 
Like the water-cup in the Master's name, 
Is something more precious still. 

By Edgar Mayhew Bacon. 

Visit Havre and ask where, 

In her ship-yards on the Seine, 
Lay the vessel, great and fair, 
That King Francis builded there, 

As the triumph of his reign. 

Full three centuries have fled 

Since " La Grande Francoise " was framed. 
Far and wide the wonder spread ; 
Paynim foes were filled with dread 

Where in whispers she was named. 

Day and night the hammer's stroke 

Like a roll of war-drums sped ; 
From the caverned walls of oak 
Tongues of ringing metal spoke, 
Telling news of timbers wed. 

All the shipwrights in the land 

To the royal builder came, 
While he paced the busy sand, 
Seeing in that fabric grand 
Certain promise of his fame. 

Six broad fathoms in its girth 
Rose the tall, majestic mast: 

Past all reckoning its worth ; 

Never yet upon the earth 
Grew another spar so vast. 

Let who will the king deride : 

Lo ! his war-ship, good and staunch, 
Utterly refused to glide 
Into the expectant tide ; 

Proving more than he could launch. 

Gone are all her strength and grace. 

On the teeming river shore 

Not a splinter marks the place ; 

Neither plank, nor bolt, as trace 

Of the wondrous ship of yore. 

perchance, some one may 
In this story, here retold, 
Matter for a thoughtful mind, 
Let him profit as inclined — 
Tale and moral both are 


By Frances Hodgson Burnett. 

HE had not been brought up 
in America at all. She had 
been born in France, in a 
beautiful chateau, and she 
had been born heiress to a 
great fortune ; but neverthe- 
less, just now, she felt as if 
she was very poor indeed. 
And yet, her home was in 
one of the most splendid houses in New York. 
She had a lovely suite of apartments of her own, 
though she was only eleven years old. She 
had her own carriage, and a saddle-horse, a train 
of teachers and attendants, and was regarded by 
all the children of the neighborhood as a sort of 
grand and mysterious little princess, whose incom- 
ings and outgoings were to be watched with the 
greatest interest. 

" There she is ! " they would cry, flying to their 
windows to look at her. " She is going out in her 
carriage. She is dressed all in black velvet and 
splendid furs ! That is her own, own carriage. 
She has so much money that she can have any- 
thing she wants — Jane says so. She is very pretty, 
too ; but she is so pale, and has such big, sorrow- 
ful, black eyes. I should not be sorrowful if I were 
in her place ; but Jane says the servants say she is 
always quiet and looks sad." 

She rarely turned her large, dark eyes to look at 
other children with any curiosity. She had not 
been accustomed to the society of children. She 
had never had a child companion in her life, 
and these little Americans who were so very rosy 
and gay, who went out to walk or to drive with 
groups of brothers and sisters, and even ran in 
the street laughing and playing and squabbling 
healthily — these children amazed her. 

Poor little Saint Elizabeth ! She had not lived 

a very natural or healthful life herself, and she 
knew absolutely nothing of real, childish pleas- 
ures. You see, it had occurred in this way. When 
she was a baby of two years, her young father and 
mother both died, within a week, of a terrible fever, 
and the only near relatives the little one had were 
her Aunt Clotilde and her Uncle Bertrand. Her 
Aunt Clotilde lived in Normandy, her Uncle Ber- 
trand in New York. As these two were her only 
guardians, and as Bertrand de Rochemont was a 
bachelor, fond of pleasure, and knowing nothing 
of children, it was natural that he should be quite 
willing that his elder sister should undertake the 
rearing and education of the child. 

There was a very great difference between these 
two people. The gray-stone chateau in Normandy 
and the brown-stone mansion in New York were 
not nearly so unlike as the lives they sheltered. 
And yet it was said that, in her early youth, Made- 
moiselle de Rochemont had been as gay and as 
fond of pleasure as either of her brothers. But 
then, when her life was at its brightest and gay- 
est, — when she was a beautiful and brilliant young 
woman, — she had had a great and bitter sorrow 
which had changed her forever. From that time 
she had seldom left the house in which she had 
been born, and had lived almost the life of a recluse. 
At first she had had her parents to take care of, 
but when they died she had been left entirely alone 
in the great chateau, devoting herself to the life 
she had resolved upon and to works of charity 
among the villagers and country people. 

" Ah, she is good, she is a saint, is Mademoi- 
selle," the poor people always said when speaking 
of her ; but they also always looked a little awe- 
stricken when she appeared, and were never very 
sorry when she left them. 

She was a tall woman, with a pale, rigid, hand- 




some face which never smiled. She was just, but 
cold and exacting. She wore always a straight 
gown of black serge, with broad linen bands. Her 
favorite reading was religious works and legends 
of the saints and martyrs : she strove to do only 
good deeds; and adjoining her private apartments 
was a little stone chapel. 

The little cure of the village, who was plump 
and comfortable, and who had the kindest heart 
and the most cheerful soul in the world, used at 
times to remonstrate gently with her — always in a 
roundabout way, however, never quite as if he 
were referring directly to herself. 

" One must not let one's self become the stone 
image of goodness," he once said. " Since one 
is really of flesh and blood, that is not best. No, 
no; it is not best." 

But Mademoiselle de Rochemont never seemed 
mere flesh and blood, exactly ; she was more like 
a marble saint who had stepped from her pedestal 
to walk upon the earth. 

And she did not change even when the baby 
Elizabeth was brought to her. She attended 
strictly to the child's comfort, and tried to do her 
duty by her; but it can scarcely be said that her 
manner was any softer, or that she smiled more. 
For a week or two Elizabeth used to be frightened 
by the sight of the black dress and the rigid, hand- 
some face, but in time she became accustomed to 
them ; and through living in an atmosphere so 
silent and without brightness, a few months 
changed her from a laughing, romping baby into 
a pale, quiet child, who rarely made any childish 
noise at all. 

In a demure way she became fond of her aunt. 
She saw few persons besides the servants, who 
were all trained to quietness also. She was a sen- 
sitive, imaginative child, and the solemn stories 
she heard filled all her mind and made up her little 
life. She longed to be a saint herself, and spent 
hours in wandering in the terraced rose-gardens, 
wondering if such a thing were possible in modern 
days, and what she must do to succeed in her de- 
sire. Her chief sorrow was that she knew herself 
to be very weak and very timid — so timid that she 
often suffered when people did not suspect it : 
and she was afraid that she was not brave enough 
to be a martyr. Her little dress — cut straight, 
and very narrow — was made of white woolen stuff, 
and gathered to a blue band at the waist. 

She was a very sweet and gentle child, and her 
pure little pale face and large dark eyes had a 
lovely, dreamy look. When she was old enough 
to visit the poor with her Aunt Clotilde — and she 
was hardly seven years old when she began — the 
villagers did not stand in awe of her, but began to 
love her, almost to reverence her, as if she had 

been indeed a little saint. The little ones delighted 
to look at her, to draw near her sometimes, and to 
curiously touch her soft white and blue robe. And 
when they did so, she always returned their looks 
with a tender, sympathetic smile, and spoke to them 
in so gentle a voice that they were very fond of 
her. They used to talk her over, and tell stories 
about her when they were playing together after- 

So, in this secluded world in the gray old stone 
chateau, — with no companion but her aunt, with 
no occupation but her studies and her charities, — 
thinking of little else than martyrs, saints, and 
religious exercises, Elizabeth lived until she was 
eleven years old. Then a great grief came to her. 
One morning Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not 
leave her room at the regular hour. As she 
never broke the fixed rules she had made for her- 
self and her household, this occasioned great anx- 
iety. Her old maid-servant waited half an hour, — 
an hour; and then went to the door and took the 
liberty of listening to ascertain whether her mistress 
was moving about the room. There was no sound. 
Old Alice returned looking agitated. " Would 
Mademoiselle Elizabeth mind entering to see if all 
were well ? Perhaps Mademoiselle, her aunt, 
might be in the chapel." Elizabeth went. Her 
aunt was not in her room. Then she must be in 
the chapel. The child entered the beautiful little 
place. The morning sun was streaming in through 
the stained-glass window, a broad ray of mingled 
brilliant colors slanted to the stone floor and 
touched with warm hues a dark figure lying there. 
It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while 
kneeling, and had died in the night. 

That was what the doctors said when they were 
sent for. She had died apparently without any pain 
or knowledge of the change coming to her. Her 
face was serene and beautiful, and the rigid look 
had melted away and had been replaced by one of 
perfect rest. 

In less than two months from that time Elizabeth 
was living in the home of her LTncle Bertrand, in 
New York. He had come to Normandy for her, 
himself, and had taken her back with him across 
the Atlantic. She was richer than ever now, as a 
great part of her Aunt Clotilde's money had been 
left to her, and Uncle Bertrand was her guardian. 
He was handsome, elegant, and clever; but having 
lived long in America, and being fond of American 
life, he did not appear very much like a French- 
man — at least, he did not seem like the men Eliza- 
beth had known, for she had seen only the cure 
and the doctor of the village. Secretly, he was 
hardly pleased at the prospect of taking care of a 
little girl ; but family pride, and the fact that such 



a very young girl, who was also such a very great 
heiress, must be taken care of, decided him. But 
when he first saw Elizabeth he could not restrain 
an exclamation of surprise. 

She entered the room, when she was sent for, 
clad in her strange little robe of black serge. 

"But, my dear child — " exclaimed Uncle 
Bertrand, aghast, staring at her slender figure in 
its severe dress. 

He managed to recover himself very quickly, 
and was in his way very kind to her ; but the first 
thing he did was to send to Paris for a maid and 
more conventional clothing. 

She felt as if she were living in a dream when 
all the old life was left behind, and she found her- 
self in the big, luxurious house in the gay New 
York street. Nothing that could be done for her 
comfort had been left undone. 

But, secretly, she felt bewildered and ill at ease ; 
everything was so new, so strange, so noisy, and 
so brilliant. The dress she wore made her feel 
unlike herself; the books they gave her were full 
of pictures and stories of things of which she knew 
nothing; her carriage was brought to the door 
and she went out with her governess, driving round 
and round the park with scores of other people who 
looked at her curiously, she did not know why. 
The truth w-as that her refined little face was very 
beautiful indeed, and her soft dark eyes still wore 
the dreamy, spiritual look which made her unlike 
the rest of the world. 

" She looks like a little princess," she heard her 
uncle say one day. " She will some day be a 
beautiful, a lovely woman. Her mother was so, 
when she died at twenty ; but she had been 
brought up differently. This one is a little saint. 
I am half afraid of her." He said this with a 
little laughter to some of his friends to whom he 
had presented the child. He did not know that 
his easy, pleasure-loving life made her uneasy. 
He gave brilliant parties ; he had no pensioners ; 
he seemed to think of little but pleasure. Poor 
little Saint Elizabeth had many an anxious thought 
of him in the quiet hours when he was fast asleep 
after a grand dinner or supper party. 

He never dreamed that there was no one ot 
whom she stood in such dread : her timidity in- 
creased tenfold in his presence. When he sent 
for her, and she went into the library to find 
him sitting luxuriously in an arm-chair, an open 
novel on his knee, a cigar in his white hand, a 
light smile on his handsome mouth, she could 
hardly answer his questions and could never find 
courage to tell him what she so earnestly desired 
to say. She had soon found out that Aunt Clotilde 
and the cure, and the life they had led, did not 
specially interest him. It seemed to her that he 

did not understand them: How could she tell him 
that she wished to spend all her money giving alms 
to the poor ? That was what she wished to tell 
him — that she desired money to send back to the 
village; that she needed it to give to the poor 
people she saw in the streets, to those who lived in 
the miserable places. 

But when she found herself face to face with him, 
and he seemed to find her only amusing, all her 
courage failed her. Sometimes she thought she 
would even beg him to send her back to Nor- 
mandy, to let her live alone in the chateau, as 
her Aunt Clotilde had done. 

One morning, when she dressed, little Elizabeth 
put on the quaint black serge robe, because she 
felt more at home in it, and her heart was full of 
determination. The night before, she had received 
a letter from the cure, and it had contained sad 
news. A fever had broken out in her beloved vil- 
lage, the vines had done badly, there was sickness 
among the cattle; there was already suffering, and 
if something were not done for the people they 
would not know how to face the winter. In the 
time of Mademoiselle de Rochemont they had al- 
ways been made comfortable and happy at Christ- 
mas. What was to be done ? The cure ventured 
to write to Mademoiselle Elizabeth. 

The poor child had scarcely slept. Her dear 
village ! Her dear people ! The children would 
be hungry, the cows would die, there would be no 
fires to warm the aged. 

" I must go to Uncle," she said, pale and trem- 
bling. " I must ask him to give me money. I 
am afraid, but it is my duty. Saint Elizabeth was 
ready to endure anything that she might do her 
duty and help the poor." 

Because she had been called Elizabeth, she had 
thought and read very often about the Saint whose 
namesake she was — Saint Elizabeth, whose hus- 
band was so cruel to her and who sought to dis- 
courage her good deeds. And oftenest she had 
read the legend which told how one day, as Eliza- 
beth went out with a basket of food to give to the 
poor and hungry, she had met her husband, who 
fiercely demanded that she should tell him what 
she was carrying; and when she was frightened 
and in her terror replied " Roses," and he tore the 
cover from the basket to see if she spoke the truth, 
a miracle had been performed, and the basket was 
filled with roses, so that she was saved from her 
husband's anger and knew also that she had been 
forgiven. To little Elizabeth this legend had seemed 
quite real, and to her it proved that if one were 
but doing good, there would be nothing to fear. 
Since she had been in her new home she had, half 
consciously, compared her uncle Bertrand to 
the wicked Landgrave, though she was too sensi- 



ble and too just to think for a moment that he was 
really as cruel as was Saint Elizabeth's husband ; 
only, she thought he did not care for the poor, and 
lived only to enjoy the pleasures of the world ; 
and surely that was selfish and wrong. 

She listened anxiously to hear when her uncle 
Bertrand should leave his room. He always rose 
late, and this morning he was later than usual, as 
he had had a dinner-party the night before. 

It was nearly noon before she heard his door 
open. Then she went quickly to the staircase; her 
heart was beating so fast that she put her little 
hand to her side and waited a moment to regain 
her breath. She felt quite cold. 

" Perhaps I must wait until he has eaten his 
breakfast," she said. " Perhaps I must not dis- 
turb him yet. It would perhaps make him dis- 
pleased. I will wait — yes, for a little while." 

She did not return to her room, but waited 
upon the stairs. It seemed to be a long time. It 
happened that a friend breakfasted with him. She 
heard a gentleman come in and recognized his 
voice, which she had heard before. She did not 
know what the gentleman's name was, but she had 
met him going in and out with her uncle once or 
twice, and had thought he had a kind face and 
kind eyes. He had looked at her in an interested 
way when he spoke to her, even as if he were a 
little curious about her, and she had wondered 
why he did so. 

When the door of the breakfast-room opened 
and shut as the servants went in and out, she 
could hear the two laughing and talking. They 
seemed to be enjoying themselves very much. 
Once she heard an order given for the mail- 
phaeton — they were evidently going to drive as 
soon as the meal was over. 

At last the door opened and they were coming 
out. Elizabeth ran down the stairs and stood in a 
small reception-room ; her heart began to beat 
faster than ever. 

" Uncle Bertrand," she said as he approached, 
and she scarcely knew her own faint voice, " Uncle 
Bertrand " 

He turned, and seeing her, started, with rather an 
impatient exclamation; evidently he was at once 
amazed and displeased to see her. He was in a 
hurry to go out, and the sight of her odd little fig- 
ure standing in its straight, black robe between 
the portieres — the slender hands clasped on the 
breast, the small, pale face and great dark eyes 
uplifted — was certainly a surprise to him. 

".Elizabeth," he said, " what is it you wish? 
Why do you come downstairs. And that impos- 
sible dress — why do you wear it again ? It is not 
suitable ! " 

" Uncle Bertrand," said the child, clasping her 
hands still more tightly, her eyes growing larger 
in her excitement and fear of his displeasure; " It 
is that I want money — a great deal. I beg your 
pardon if I disturb you. It is for the poor. 
Moreover, the cure has written, ' The people of 
the village are ill ; the vineyards did not yield 
well.' They must have money — I must send them 

Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders un- 

■ 'That is the message of Monsieur le Cure, is it? " 
he said. " He wants money ! My dear Elizabeth, 
I must inquire further. You have a fortune, but 
still I must not permit you to throw it away. You 
are a child and you do not yet understand." 

''But," cried Elizabeth, trembling with agita- 
tation, " they are so poor when one does not help 
them — their vineyards are so little. And if the 
year is bad they must starve. Aunt Clotilde gave 
to them every year — even in the good years. She 
always said they must be cared for like children." 

"That was your aunt Clotilde's good heart," 
replied her uncle. " I must know more of this. 
I have no time at present — I am going out of 
town. In a few days I will reflect upon it. Tell 
your maid to give that old garment away. Go 
out to drive; amuse yourself — you need fresh air. 
You are too pale." 

Elizabeth looked at his handsome, kindly face 
in utter helplessness. This seemed a matter of 
life and death to her ; to him it was a child's 

" But it is winter," she panted, breathlessly, 
"there is snow. Soon it will be Christmas and 
they will have nothing ! Nothing for the poorest 
ones ! And the children " 

" It shall be thought of later," said Uncle Ber- 
trand. " I am too busy now. Be reasonable, my 
child, and run away. You arc detaining me — I 
can do nothing now." 

He left her with a slight, impatient shrug of 
the shoulders, and even with an amused smile on 
his lips. 

Elizabeth shrank back into the shadow of the 
portieres. Great, burning tears filled her eyes 
and slipped down her cheeks. 

"He does not understand," she said. "He 
does not know. And I can do no one good — no 
one." And she covered her face with her hands 
and stood sobbing, all alone. 

When she returned to her room she was so pale 
that her maid looked at her anxiously and spoke 
of it afterward to the other servants. They were 
all fond of Mademoiselle Elizabeth. She was so 
kind and gentle to everybody. 

C To be continued. ) 

«■ - ■ ■* ■■■■" 

. ,ad — ',. .&., «as3ii^L_^.^i 


By Edmund Alton. 

Chapter I. 
The Federal Power. 

It was taken for granted, in our preliminary 
remarks last month, that the reader is more or less 
familiar with the outline of the Government as it 
is described in the language of the Constitution. 
Let us bring that " literary theory" to the light, 
and detect beneath the surface of its simple words 
a trace or two of hidden meaning. 

The United States of America is somewhat of a 
League and somewhat of a Nation. It is a League, 
or Confederation, to the extent that it is a union 
of sovereign States; it is a Nation to the extent 
that it is a union of the people who compose 
those States. Strictly speaking, its power is 
partly federal and partly national ; federal, so far 
as it recognizes and deals with the States, in their 
sovereign capacity as States ; national, so far as it 
recognizes and deals with the people, as individuals 
or citizens of the United States. In a wider and 
more general sense, however, we speak of it as 
federal, because it is based upon a compact or 
agreement ; that compact is the Constitution. By 
the Federal Power, therefore, we mean the author- 
ity granted by the Constitution to the United 
States — in other words, we mean the Government 
of the Union. 

The Federal Power was established for a special 
purpose — to exercise a general care or guardian- 
ship over the rights and interests of the people and 
the States. Its creation did not destroy the inde- 
pendence or authority of the States. The Federal 
Government was made supreme and indestructible, 
but its authority was limited to certain objects ; 

the States, though shorn of certain powers, remained 
sovereign and indestructible, and independent in 
their own sphere of action. 

The government of each State concerns itself, 
chiefly, with those affairs which touch the interests 
of its citizens in the ordinary transactions and course 
of life. With these local or private affairs of the 
State the Federal Power has nothing to do. Its 
province is to preserve harmony between the 
States, and ensure the equal rights of all citizens 
of the United States ; to protect the States from 
invasion or domestic harm, and defend every per- 
son from injustice or tyranny on the part of any 
State ; to shield both States and people from for- 
eign violence or injury, and promote their general 
welfare at home and abroad. The authority of a 
State stops at its own boundaries ; the power of 
the United States stretches over continents and 

The Federal Power, then, alone has charge of 
all our interests abroad. This branch of its work, 
covering as it does our commercial and general 
intercourse with foreign lands, seems clear. The 
other branch, that which concerns us at home, — its 
domestic relations with the people and with the 
States, — is yet more important, and, in some re- 
gards, uncertain and obscure. 

We have already stated the broad design and 
province of the Government. On that subject we 
are not without a guide. The Constitution de^ 
clares, in its opening words, the purposes for 
which the Government was established; and the 
Tenth Amendment expressly limits the powers of 
the United States to those granted to it by the 
Constitution. Hence, from all the provisions of 
the Constitution, taken together, we should be 




able to gather a fair idea of the scope of the Gov- 
ernment's authority. 

But if we run over those provisions, one by one, 
we shall find that its powers are stated in general 
terms. The Constitution points out little more 
than the general intent ; it leaves much unsaid, 
and much to be inferred. When we speak of the 
"express" powers of the Government we mean 
those which are conferred in so many plain and 
direct words. But its powers are not only those 
which are expressly granted. The Tenth Amend- 
ment took special care to avoid that term. It 
refers to the powers of the government as those 
"delegated" by the Constitution, — not "expressly 
delegated," — and thus left the exact extent of 
those powers still open to dispute. When we see 
the Government engaged in any class of work, 
we have a right to demand that it shall show its 
authority under the Constitution. But we need 
not expect it to point to some express provision 
as directly answering our question. It may be do- 

namely, in time of martial law and public peril. 
Accordingly, the Government has not hesitated to 
suspend it in emergency. 

So, too, the Constitution does not, in so many 
words, empower the Government to carry on war. 
But it empowers it to declare war ; and from that 
power, and its power to raise armies and provide a 
navy, and to employ the militia of the States in 
the service of the United States, we may clearly 
infer, even if there could be any question as to 
the meaning of the word "declare," that it has a 
general " war power " in the full sense of that term. 

Again, in 1807, the Government ordered a gen- 
eral and unlimited embargo! which locked up in 
our ports all ships or vessels bound to foreign 
shores. It was a startling and tremendous exer- 
cise of power. It reads like a warlike act ; but it 
was not urged under the general war power. It 
was upheld by the judiciary on the ground that 
the Government had absolute authority to regu- 
late commerce with foreign nations and among 

ing the work under its incidental or implied pow- the States, and that its exercise of that authority 

ers — that is, those which "go without saying," 
those which may be inferred from the language of 
the Constitution. It may be doing the work un- 
der its auxiliary powers — that is, those covered 
by the sweeping provision authorizing it to adopt 
all necessary and proper means to carry out its 
other powers. Or it may be doing the work un- 
der what are styled its resulting powers — that is, 
powers which cannot be directly traced to any 
express provision, as incidental, auxiliary, or im- 
plied, but which may be inferred from the general 
intent of the entire Constitution; in other words, 
which result or flow from the sum total of its pow- 
ers. Let us take a few illustrations. 

The Constitution says that the Government shall 
have power to levy and collect taxes, to borrow 
money, to regulate commerce, to declare war, and 
so on. These are express powers, and when we 
hear of the Government taxing, borrowing, de- 

could not be called into question, although its 
action in that instance tended to utterly destroy 
our foreign commerce. It might be very properly 
asked, in connection with this subject, whether 
the recent retaliation measures proposed against 
Canada were similarly inspired in a friendly way 
under the power to regulate commerce, or whether 
they sound of war. Either construction, appar- 
ently, could be maintained. 

Take another case. At the time of the adop- 
tion of the Constitution, the United States con- 
sisted of thirteen States and a great tract of land 
known as the Northwest Territory, extending 
northward to the Great Lakes, and westward to the 
Mississippi River. In no part of the Constitution 
is power expressly granted to the United States to 
acquire new territory. Yet, in 1803, the United 
States purchased from France the vast region then 
styled Louisiana, spreading from the Gulf of Mex- 

claring war, or doing certain other plain acts, we ico to British America, and from the Mississippi 

know where it claims its authority. And yet, as 
we shall soon see, these express provisions are not 
wholly free from doubt. 

Again, in no part of the Constitution is power 
to suspend what is known as the writ of habeas 
corpus* expressly conferred upon the Government. 
There is, however, a provision forbidding it to sus- 
pend the writ, unless required by public safety in 
cases of rebellion or invasion ; and from this em- 
phatic denial of power we infer that it has power 
to suspend the writ under certain circumstances — 

River to the Rocky Mountains, out of which a 
number of our present States and Territories have 
since been carved. The right to make this pur- 
chase was seriously questioned ; but the Supreme 
Court of the United States afterward declared that 
the Government has the right to add to the national 
domain, by conquest or by purchase, under its 
express and absolute powers to make war and to 
make treaties. Further on, in 1845, the Govern- 
ment annexed and admitted into the LInion as a 
State the Republic of Texas ; this was not done by 

* So called from the Latin words used in the ancient form of the writ, signifying " You may have the body." Its chief use is to set 
at liberty a person wrongfully imprisoned, by bringing him before the court where the legality of his imprisonment may be inquired into. 
It is the most celebrated writ in English history, and its arbitrary suspension in time of peace would be an act of high-handed despotism. 

t The word "embargo*' means a restraint nn the sailing of ships either into or out of port, but limited as to time. The embargo of 1807 did 
not limit the duration of the restraint ; hence the formidable nature of the act. 




war or treaty, but the right to make the addition 
was claimed under the power to admit new States. 

Take yet another case. In the late Civil War 
the Government was brought face to face with a 
dire crisis. Its treasury was bankrupt, its credit 
was exhausted, its troops were in the field fighting 
for its life. It needed means to carry on the war; 
those means could not be had without money. It 
did not have money, it could not borrow it ; it there- 
fore boldly made it — out of nothing. That is, it 
issued " greenbacks." In sheer desperation it put 
its stamp on paper, and solemnly declared that pa- 
per to be as good as gold. 

In no part of the Constitution can express power 
be found to justify that action. After the war 
closed, the question was submitted to the Supreme 
Court. The Court held that the action of the 
Government was lawful, and this was its reasoning : 
The Constitution intended that the Government 
should endure for ages. It was expressly given the 
power to declare war and raise armies and provide 
a navy, and under its general war power it had 
a right to defend its life in any way that might be 
necessary ; and, if paper money was necessary to 
that end, it had a right to issue it. 

After the war, however, the Government con- 
tinued to issue greenbacks. The war necessity had 
passed ; the question was again laid before the Su- 
preme Court, and this time the Court took a dif- 
ferent tack and went further than it did before. 
It held that the Government has the right to make 
paper money not only in time of war but in time 
of peace, and it defended that right under various 
provisions and reasonings — under the express 
power to borrow money, and under other express 
provisions, under the auxiliary powers as proper 
means to carry out other powers, and under the 
sum of all the powers which clothed the Government 
with certain supreme " attributes of sovereignty " 
possessed and exercised by older Governments. 

These acts are named merely as illustrations. 
They have gone into history; they have been 
passed upon by the highest court in our country ; 
and those decisions stand, until reversed by future 
decisions or overcome by Constitutional Amend- 
ment, as the true meaning of the Constitution. 
They are not mentioned to arouse debate. It was 
paper money that helped to save the Union. The 
purchase of Louisiana was, in the light of events, 
a grand achievement. It was a " long reach " of 
statesmanship. For, by it, the Republic at one 
bound passed from the Mississippi to the Rocky 
Mountains ; and, having gone so far, it was inevit- 
able that sooner or later it should leap the crest of 
the continent and plant its power on the shores of 
the Pacific. Under the right to extend our domain, 
whether by purchase, by conquest, or by annexa- 

tion, we have attained the magnificent proportions, 
as a nation, which we present before the world to- 

But we must not shut our eyes to the fact that 
we have done these and other things by liberal 
views as to the extent of the Federal Power. When 
one provision was evidently against us, we have 
fallen back upon another. We have made the 
plainest and most rigid terms of the Constitution 
stretch and bend (they have been even wrenched) 
to the dictates of national policy or to the necessi- 
ties of the times. The provision of the Constitution 
in regard to the "territory" of the United States 
referred, almost beyond a doubt, to the North-west 
Territory ; and its provision in regard to the ad- 
mission of new States had in mind the creation of 
States either by dividing up some of the "thirteen " 
already in existence (with their consent) or the for- 
mation of new ones out of the Northwest Territory 
— not the admission of foreign States or the crea- 
tion of States out of foreign territory. And we 
might produce still stronger proof as to the true 
intention of other provisions. 

Two clauses of the Constitution are of special 
importance. The first is that which confers upon 
the Government the power to tax and raise revenue 
in order "to pay the debts and provide for the 
common defence and general welfare of the United 
States." This provision, or the " general welfare " 
part of it, has been the subject of heated argu- 
ments from the beginning of the Government to 
the present day. Under this provision, the Gov- 
ernment plainly has power to raise a revenue ; but 
whether it can rightfully use its power to tax for 
other ends than those of revenue, and collect more 
money than it actually needs, and to what matters 
of general welfare it can apply the revenue so col- 
lected, are questions that have been brought before 
the people time and time again, and notably so in 
the campaign just ended. 

The second clause of great consequence is that 
which authorizes Congress to make all laws which 
may be "necessary and proper" to carry out the 
other powers granted by the Constitution. As to 
what the Government may or may not do under 
this, its auxiliary power, there is no test beyond 
the discretion, or even the caprice, of Congress 
and the extreme limits of the Constitution itself; 
the courts refuse point-blank to interfere with the 
right of Congress to choose its own "means" so 
long as they tend toward proper ends. 

To the work actunlly being done by the Govern- 
ment under these two clauses, the language itself 
furnishes only a bare clue. And as we have seen, 
nearly every provision can be made to stretch to 
objects little imagined by the casual reader of the 
Constitution. The powers exercised by the Gov- 



eminent are greater than appear in words. This 
fact you should keep in mind. 

All the way along our national career we find 
the people divided over the question of Federal 
authority — some favoring its liberal extension, 
others demanding that it be held carefully in 
check. The right of the Government to con- 
struct or aid "internal improvements" — such as 
the building of national roads, the opening of 
water-ways, and the improvement of navigable 
streams, — to charter national banks, and carry 
out other great measures, has been fought step 
by step ; and for this reason the later amend- 
ments to the Constitution, to guard as far as pos- 
sible against new doubts or conflicts, expressly 
confer upon the Government the power to enforce 
the provisions of such amendments. As there 
are people to-day who believe that the Govern- 
ment has far exceeded its true province, so there 
are others who believe it has not gone far enough. 

It is suggested, for instance, that the Government 
should build ship-canals, and take charge of the 
railroads, of the telegraph, and of a variety of other 
great interests, and manage them for the common 
benefit of the people, and that, if it does not pos- 
sess sufficient power under the Constitution as it 
stands, amendments should be adopted giving it 
more power. 

It will surprise no one at all familiar with the 
subject to be told that the Government is doing 
things which, under the Constitution, it ought not 
to do ; and, on the other hand, that it is not doing 
things which, under the Constitution, it ought to 
do. And those who blindly demand an increase 
of power would do well to first understand the 
power it actually wields to-day. That amend- 
ments will be adopted in the course of time cannot 
be doubted ; for new conditions provoke new ques- 
tions. But they are serious affairs. They should 
be made with caution. The person who would 
offer a change or addition to the Constitution to 
meet every trivial or passing topic of the day is not 
a safe adviser of the people. 

Every American who is a citizen of one of the 
United States lives under two governments and 
owes a double allegiance. He owes allegiance to 
the government of the State wherein he lives, 
upon which he directly relies for protection in his 
rights of life, liberty, and property ; and he owes 
allegiance to the Government of the United States, 
whose power he may invoke should his rights as a 
citizen of the Union be denied to him by a State, 
or should they be put in danger wherever he may 
roam. Each government works in a separate 

sphere ; yet there is a vague borderland of au- 
thority where the movements of the one seem to 
blend in the power of the other. He should un- 
derstand the workings of these governments, and 
their exact relations to each other and to himself. 
He should understand not only the Constitution 
and Government of the Union, but the constitution 
and government of his State. With that knowl- 
edge he will realize how far his civil liberty may 
be affected or imperiled by any disturbance of 
their powers. Taking a just pride in both, but 
watchful of his own personal independence, he 
will not seek to impair their agencies for good 
nor will he rashly wish to add to their armor from 
any false notion of sovereign display or glory. 

In studying the Constitution, the limitations 
upon power should be carefully observed. And 
in viewing the operations of the Federal Govern- 
ment we should not lose sight of the less preten- 
tious but equally important operations of the State. 

Chapter II. 


THE operations of the Federal Government in- 
clude the actions of the three great branches into 
which its power is divided. But the methods em- 
ployed by Congress and by the Judiciary are out- 
side the purpose of our sketch. It is sufficient to 
say that the work of Congress (located at the City 
of Washington and consisting of a Senate and 
House of Representatives) is chiefly shown in the 
laws which it enacts, and which are spread upon 
the statute books, within easy reach of all. The 
work of the Judiciary (consisting of various courts, 
located some at Washington and others throughout 
the country) is chiefly shown in its interpretation 
and application of those laws in the settlement of 
controversies concerning private or public rights 
or private or public wrongs ; and its leading 
decisions, so far as they involve principles or ques- 
tions of interest to the public, are set forth in the 
various volumes of Court Reports, also within 
reach of all. 

The work of the third great branch — the Execu- 
tive — is shown in the actual administration of the 
laws. At the head of this branch stands the Presi- 
dent of the United States (with headquarters at 
Washington), in whom alone the entire Executive 
Power of the Government is vested by the Consti- 
tution ; and, acting under his general command, are 
the subordinate agents of administration* (many 
residing at Washington, but most of them dis- 

* A special Committee of the Senate (without pretending to be entirely accurate) lately reported the number as 171,746 — those figures 
including, of course, the Army and Navy as well as the civilians in Government employ. Allowing for fluctuation, it may be placed gen- 
erally at 170,000 and upward. 




persed in various parts of the United States and 
various foreign sections of the earth) — in round 
numbers, not far from 175,000 strong. Upon 
this branch rests the duty of carrying into effect 
the thousands of laws, in all their variety and in- 
tricacies, which Congress for one hundred years 
has been industriously enacting, presumably in 
strict performance of its own duty and in the inter- 
est of the people and the States. A knowledge of 
that work involves a knowledge of the laws and 
the methods whereby those laws are carried out by 
the agents of administration — the daily practical 
movements of the Government itself. 

The great mass of work thus imposed upon the 
Executive Power of the Government — embracing 
so many distinct subjects, and requiring so many 
thousands of agents to perform — must be arranged 
and treated in an orderly and systematic manner. 
To expect the President to give it his close per- 
sonal attention and directly superintend the doings 
of each agent, would be absurd. The magnitude 
and diversity of the work demand its separation 
into parts, and the general supervision or manage- 
ment of each part must be intrusted to a separate 
officer. On this business basis, and in accordance 
with the design of the Constitution, Congress has 
divided the work among seven executive depart- 
ments, each in charge of a general officer or " head 
of department," known, respectively, as the Secre- 
tary of State, the Secretary of the Treasury, the 
Secretary of War, the Attorney-General, the Post- 
master-General, the Secretary of the Navy, and 
the Secretary of the Interior; and the work of 
each department is still further subdivided and 
distributed among "bureaus" and "divisions" 
and minor " offices," in charge of lesser heads or 
chiefs, designated as "commissioners," "super- 
intendents," " directors," and by various other 
general or special titles. 

An Executive Department, then, properly means 
one of the grand divisions of Government work 
boldly marked out or suggested by the express 
provisions of the Constitution. These grand di- 
visions readily arrange themselves. The sovereign 
relations of the Republic with foreign powers, and 
its official intercourse with the Governments of the 
States at home may be regarded as one distinct 
grand division ; accordingly, we have the Depart- 
ment of State. The coinage, currency, revenue, 
and general fiscal affairs suggest another great 
branch of work ; hence, we have the Department 
of the Treasury. The mention of armies suggests 
work that in time of trouble is likely to tax the 
energy of a separate division ; thus, we very ap- 
propriately have a Department of War. The pros- 
ecution of offenses against the United States, and 
other judicial matters wherein the interests of the 

Republic are concerned constitute a general di- 
vision, represented by the Department of Justice. 
The postal service, as one of the most intricate 
and important branches of Government work, cer- 
tainly forms another grand division ; therefore, we 
have the Post-Office Department. Maritime pro- 
tection, like the military or land defense, forms a 
separate division ; and thus we have the De- 
partment of the Navy. The various matters of 
domestic concern, not covered in these other De- 
partments, but contemplated by the Constitution, 
such as the census, public lands, patents, and 
"odds and ends," may be conveniently grouped 
into another general division ; and thus we have 
the very miscellaneous, yet not misnamed, Depart- 
ment of the Interior. 

To some of these Executive Departments are 
intrusted matters which, on their face at least, do 
not strictly belong to the grand division to which 
they have been assigned by law. For instance, 
the "Weather Bureau" is a bureau of the War 
Department ; the work being intimately connected 
with the peaceful interests of agriculture and com- 
merce, it is very generally demanded that it should 
be taken from military control and placed else- 
where. On the other hand, it is urged by some 
that the subject of Indian affairs, now in charge of 
a bureau of the Department of the Interior, should 
be transferred to the War Department. The 
Coast Survey, the Light-House Board, the Marine 
Hospital Service, and other bureaus or offices, 
while they imply connection with maritime affairs, 
deal really with commerce and mercantile interests 
rather than with matters of national defense, and ■ 
are to-day found under the Department of the 
Treasury, rather than under the Navy, as their 
titles might suggest. The Departments were es- 
tablished during a series of years. As special inter- 
ests required attention and special bureaus were 
created, they were, in many instances, placed 
under the most convenient Departments then ex- 
isting. Some of these bureaus have grown in 
size, and, having been retained where they were 
originally placed, instead of being shifted to 
more appropriate Departments, they contrast 
strangely with the work of other bureaus imme- 
diately about them. In this way, we may account 
for seemingly improper or haphazard classification 
of Government work. 

It may further be noted that the Government is 
engaged in some unassigned work, not embraced 
within any of the regular established Executive 
Departments. The Department of Agriculture, 
while called a "department," and while independ- 
ent of the other departments, is really only an in- 
dependent bureau with a mere commissioner in 
charge. It has often been proposed to raise it 



to the rank of an Executive Department, with 
a secretary at its head, preserving its present 
name ; or to add to it certain other work now be- 
ing done in other bureaus and call the whole a 
" Department of Industries." In like manner, it 
has been proposed to bring together and consoli- 
date the various branches of scientific work, now 
being done by the Government in various bureaus 
and under different departments, and establish a 
separate " Department of Science." But the ob- 
jection made to these suggestions is, that the work 
done by the Department of Agriculture, and by the 
other bureaus in question, while perhaps important 
and proper for the Government to perform, as mat- 
ters bearing upon national welfare, does not form, 
in itself, a broad, grand division of administration, 
distinctly mapped out or indicated by the Constitu- 
tion, and to do as has been suggested would be to 
lift auxiliary or incidental work into undue promi- 
nence. And an Executive Department, once es- 
tablished, the tendency would be toward a gradual 
building up and extension of power, with danger 
of exceeding " necessary and proper" limits. So 
far as actual results are concerned, or for the 
purpose of this sketch, it makes little difference 
whether they are called departments or bureaus ; 
the work is being done, though perhaps not on so 
great a scale as would otherwise be the case. That 
other Executive Departments will be established is 
very probable. Two of those already established, 
the Department of the Treasury and the Interior 
Department, are liable to become unwieldy by 
increase of business ; and part of the work now 
intrusted to them might very properly and advan- 
tageously be taken away and lodged in one or more 
separate divisions. The various bureaus of the 
Treasury Department, a few of which have been 
noted, relating more directly to commercial mat- 
ters than to purely fiscal duties, might be grouped 
into a " Department of Commerce," — a subject in 
itself, comprising a broad division of Constitutional 
work. This, however, is a question of administra- 

* Since the writing of the foregoing views, and on the eve of put- 
ting them into type, another bill before Congress, providing for the 
establishment of an Executive Department of Agriculture, h^s nearly 
reached the final stage of legislation, and may become a law by the 
time this number of St. Nicholas shall go to press. The adoption 
of such a law, it must be frankly confessed, will be a departure from 
what has heretofore been regarded as the distinct and true lines of 
the Constitution. Agricultural (or farming) interests, so far as they 
require dealing with by law, are matters within the province of 
each State, and the Federal Government cannot interfere with 
them, except so far as they form a part of commerce with foreign 
nations or among the States — as, for example, the passage of 
diseased cattle from State to State. Aside from this feature 
(which belongs to the general subject of "Commerce") the 
operations of the Department of Agriculture do not form a great 
division of Constitutional work ; its duties are scarcely executive 
in their nature: and to class that work as an "Executive Depart- 
ment" is to torture the meaning of the term as it is used in the 
Constitution. The enactment of the pending measure is not un- 

tive convenience rather than of strict necessity, at 
the present time.* 

It is the heads of department, then, through 
whom the President must chiefly deal in giving his 
orders and to whom he must directly look for 
information as to what is being done in the 
administration of the Government. The Consti- 
tution, recognizing this dependence, provides that 
the President "may require the opinion, in writ- 
ing, of the principal officer in each of the Execu- 
tive Departments, upon any subject relating to the 
duties of their respective offices." This depend- 
ence, of course, extends from the principal officers 
to the subordinate chiefs. The Constitution re- 
quires the President to give to Congress, from time 
to time, information of "the state of the Union," 
and this he does, at least once a year, in the shape 
of his " Annual Message." The heads of depart- 
ment, with one exception, are likewise ordered by 
Congress to render regular annual reports, at the 
beginning of each session of Congress, in regard 
to the operations of their departments. It might 
be imprudent to require the Secretary of State to 
publicly disclose all the doings of his department; 
yet even that department is ordered to annually 
transmit to Congress certain information gathered 
by its agents abroad, together with other details 
not involved in the secrecy of unfinished diplo- 
matic negotiations. 

The President, in his Annual Message, relies on 
the annual reports of the heads of department, 
and these heads of department in turn rely upon 
(and transmit with their reports) the reports made 
to them by their subordinate bureau and division 
officers. In this way, at the beginning of every 
session of Congress, the general operations of the 
Government during the preceding year, with 
recommendations for legislation, are spread before 
the legislative branch of the Government in the 
interesting but formidable literature of "annual 
reports." In addition to the regular reports 
required by law, and other reports which the 

likely to result in one of two serious evils pointed out by eminent 
students of the question — either it will be the establishment of a 
great "reservoir" into which Congress will be pouring power for 
years to come, by the addition or creation of other bureaus, and in 
whose increasing volume the interests of Agriculture as now cared 
for will be neglected or lost: or, it will arouse the envy of other in- 
dustries and interests, which will demand similar recognition by 
Congress, and we may then expect to see the formation of other 
Executive Departments one devoted exclusively to "Manufact- 
ures," another to "Labor," another to "Art," and perhaps we 
may even realize the sarcasm of the critic and have a separate 
"Department of Everything." All this, however, is by the 
way. The movement is noticed as another effort to expand the 
language of the Constitution beyond its apparent meaning. But 
these criticisms, based purely upon Constitutional principles, 
should not be understood as questioning the value or the pro- 
priety of the present work of the Agricultural Department or its 
claims to enlarged powers within special lines, as will be hereafter 



Executive Department may see fit to send to Con- 
gress from time to time (as well as the publications 
continually being issued to the public by depart- 
ments and bureaus), the President and other 
officers of the service are incessantly being called 
upon by either House of Congress, when in 
session, for information on special subjects to 
guide the law-makers in their important work 
of legislation. 

'The head of each Executive Department is 
authorized by Congress to prescribe regulations, 
not inconsistent with law, for the government of 
his department, the conduct of its officers and 
clerks, the distribution and performance of its busi- 
ness, and the custody, use, and preservation of the 
records, papers, and property appertaining to it. 
From the intricacy of these regulations and from 
blind devotion or long adherence to senseless 
forms, have grown up some very roundabout 
methods of business, commonly known as ''red- 
tape " — a name taken from the color of the ribbon 
used in public offices in tying papers.* To follow, 
for instance, a simple purchase of stationery for 
department use, through the official maneuvers, 
from the time the stationery is ordered until it is 
finally paid for, would be to go through a maze of 

* The term "red-tape" is not confined to the United States. 
Charles Dickens, in ridiculing this feature of circuitous action on the 
part of the British Government, described it as the " Circumlocution 
Office " or the chief of public offices " in the art of perceiving how 
not to do it." Mark Twain, in his famous satire of" The Great Beef 
Contract," has placed on record his views about official formalities 
and delays on the part of our own Government. Nor is his burlesque 
so extravagant as many people may suppose, as will appear from 
various illustrations given in the report of the Senate Committee. 
The statement of some very ordinary instances of red-tape occupies 
pages of that report ; we may condense one specimen to its smallest 
limits. Take, for instance, the case of a clerk in the division of 
accounts in the General Land Office, in the Interior Department, 
examining an account of a disbursing agent of that department. In 
the course of his examination that clerk would need to know the 
balance to the credit of the disbursing agent at the last settlement of 
his accounts by the First Comptroller of the Treasury. This requires 
him to obtain the information from the Office of the Register of the 
Treasury, where it is kept. Now, to get that information, the clerk, 
in following out the regular methods, would fill out a blank request 
for information , addressed to the Register of the Treasury, place his 
initials upon that request, and hand it to the chief of the division of 
accounts, who would in turn hand it to the assistant chief, who 
would place his initials also upon it and return it to the chief, who 
would then put his initials upon it and pass it to the law-examiners, 
one of whom would examine and put his initials upon it, and pass it to 
another law-examiner, who would also initial it, and then forward it 
by a messenger to the room of the Commissioner of the General Land 
Office, where it would be received and the name of the commissioner 
stamped upon it by a clerk, and then returned to the division of ac- 
counts, where another clerk would make a record of it and also of the 
name of the clerk who filled up the blank request ; and it would then 
be handed to the clerk who originally made it, who would then pass it 
to another clerk, who would record it in full in the record of letters 
written in that division, initial it, and hand it back to the original 
"requesting" clerk, who would make a letterpress copy of it, ad- 
dress an envelope to the Register of the Treasury, and place the 

books and a small regiment of clerks. In the 
keeping of Government accounts it is necessary 
that there should be guards against fraud, and 
there is reason in requiring that each transaction 
in relation to the collection or disposition of pub- 
lic funds shall undergo the scrutiny of different 
clerks and be recorded in different books, each 
entry or clerk acting as a check upon the other. 
But there is scarcely a branch of department 
detail, as now observed, whether in matters of 
finance or in minor matters of unimportant cor- 
respondence, that is not open to improvement, 
and in some regards the extent to which this detail 
is carried is simply farcical. Indeed, the evil has 
become so notorious that a committee of the Sen- 
ate was recently appointed for the special purpose 
of overhauling these dusty and cob webbed meth- 
ods, and the result has been some sort of effort 
to do away with useless details and ensure econ- 
omy, dispatch, and general simplicity in the trans- 
action of public business. Further observations of 
a general nature, in regard to the officers and 
methods of administration, may be postponed for 
the sake of present brevity, until we come to the 
organization and work of particular departments. 

[To be contitiucd.} 

envelope and the inclosure in a basket, whence a messenger would 
carry them to the mailing-room. Without tracing the course of that 
letter through the Post-Office Department, we may next begin on it 
when it arrives at the Register's Office in the Treasury Department. 
There it would be opened by a messenger, who would hand it to a 
clerk, who would make out the required certificate showing the bal- 
ance on the last account, with other data, put his initial on the cer- 
tificate, and hand it to the chief of his division, who would put his 
initial on it and forward it by a messenger to the Assistant Regis- 
ter, who would sign and deliver it to a messenger, to be mailed to 
the Commissioner of the General Land Office. Here conies in the 
agency of the Post-Office Department again. When received in the 
Land Office the certificate would be delivered by a messenger (who 
opens the mail) to a clerk, who would hand it to another clerk, who 
would place around it a "jacket," stamp on the jacket the date of 
its receipt in the office and the running number of the communica- 
tion as shown by the Index, make a brief note of the contents of the 
certificate on the back of the jacket, and then hand the certificate to 
another clerk, who would make an entry of it in a book called the 
"Numerical Index " and check the jacket, and hand it to another 
clerk, who would enter the certificate in the " Register of accounts 
and letters received," and check the jacket and forward it, with its 
contents, by a messenger, to the chief of the division of accounts, 
who would hand it to another clerk, who would enter the certificate 
in a " Register of accounts and letters received," and also in an 
" Index," check the jacket, endorse thereon the volume and page 
of the register in which it had been entered, and then hand it over 
to the clerk who originally made the request, who then could go on 
with his examination of the account of the disbursing agent. That, 
by the way, is only one step in the terrible "red-tape" rigmarole 
still to be pursued before the final examination and settlement of 
that agent's account! Here, then, is a trifle — a request for a few 
figures which could be obtained, within a few minutes, by the clerk 
putting on his hat, jumping into a street-car, riding to the Treasury 
Department, only six short blocks away, receiving orally the infor- 
mation from the clerk who has it in the Register's Office, and return- 
ing to his desk in the Interior Department ! 

The purpose of this entertainment is to reproduce a Christmas 
scene of Shakspere's time, both for its own sake and as an at- 
tractive setting for the delightful old Christmas carols which 
never can wear out. 

It is especially adapted to a church choral-society, or to the 
older pupils of a Sunday-school or an academy, and it also brings 
in a good number of the younger children. 

It admits of any desired changes as to the music designated, 
though the quaint old carols should be adhered to. The Waits, 
if possible, should be a well-trained male quartet. 

The costumes should be carefully consistent, and pains must be 
taken to secure effective grouping of the company. The picture will 
be finer if the gentlemen generally stand; and the short benches on 
which most of the ladies may sit should be of varied heights. 

SIR Tristram and Lady Geraldine should occupy antique chairs 
on a dais at the side of the stage, and the Jester, while moving 
freely around, will be in place near their feet. 

The company should move about as opportunity offers, rising to 
sing, and avoiding stiffness and indifference to what is going on. 

" The Lord of Misrule " and his followers must be very spirited, 
making a whirlwind of fun and noise during their brief appearance. 


Sir Tristram An English gentleman 

Lady Gee aldine His wife 

Lady Beatrice A guest, who sings 

Little Edith The grandchild 

Waits, ladies and gentlemen, "The Lord of Misrule 

Master Rivers Another tuneful guest 

A Jester 

Gregory A servant 

Hugo A servant 

" and his merry band, children, etc., etc. 

Scene — An Old English Hall. 

(Curtain rises, discovering two servants and a jester. ) 

GREGORY — By the mass, this is the merriest 
Christmas I e'er did see. Didst ever know 
such goings on ? Such eating, and drinking, 
and frolicking ? What a dinner had we the 
day ; and Ods body, what a pudding was that ! 
They perforce left enough for us to feast 

Vol. XVI.— 10. 

HUGO — Aye, that they did, and right royally 
I tell thee, Gregory, we do well to live in these 
days of good Queen Bess, when there 's plenty 
to eat and drink. I warrant thee those knav- 
ish knights we hear of oft went hungry. 

GREGORY — The more fools they. I care not for 
glory. As the merry play-actor saith, " I am 




one that am nourished by my victuals, and 
would fain have meat." Ah, Hugo, that's a 
rare play ; it maketh one to laugh mightily. 
The master goeth oft to see it, and he de- 
lighteth in that merry Launce. Marry, thou 

shalt see anon how pat I '11 do 't ; the master 
saith, Christmas or no Christmas, I shall pre- 
sent Launce and his dog. 

HUGO — The feasters soon shall come, I trow. 'T is 
eight o' the clock. How now, Fool ? Why art 
thou drowsy? Whence these doleful dumps? 
Awake and give us a taste of thy drollery. 

Jester — O, give o'er, I prithee. 'T is sad enough 
to show folly to the wise. My pearls are not 
for swine. 

HUGO — Swine.' Thou unmannerly knave ; we'll 
whack thee soundly an thou mind'st not. 

Jester — Nay; an thou canst not be civil, I'll 
take myself away. I 'd fain be still. I 'm 
grinding at my mill 'gainst the Yuletide. 

Gregory — What mean'st thou, boy ? 

Jester — Dost think we men of mind can forth- 

with do our task, as ye can lift a trencher ? 
Aforetime must we store the jest that seemeth 
struck like flash of steel. E'en now I 'm sit- 
ting on the jokes I '11 hatch anon. 

GREGORY — Ho ! Ho ! thou art rare, Sir Fool. 

Jester — Then leave me lest I be well done with 
such a scurvy fire as you would give. 

GREGORY — My life, but thou art quick. I would 
I had your wit. 

Jester — O, covet it not, good Gregory. Thou 
art fool enough without it. 

HUGO — He hath thee ' ; on the hip," as saith the 
Jew. Hark ! I hear the steps of the gentles. 
Let us to our posts. 

(Enter the Christmas company.) 

SIR Tristram — This way, good friends. I pray 
you be merry and at ease ; make our home 
your own. My sweet wife here, and my 
chicks will look to 't that a Christmas in old 
England shall not see you want for anything. 
In our simple English way we bid you wel- 
come to Yuletide. 

Lady Geraldine — Find seats, dear hearts. We 
'd have such a Christmas eve as would drive 
all thoughts but happy ones far from you. 
'T is a blessed time, for the good-will the 
angels sang of yore gains apace, and in this 
fair land, far from those lonely heights where 
the shepherds watched their sheep, we gather 
to praise Christ's name, and show each to 
each the love we bear. 

Sir T. — Aye, she speaketh well. I own 't is true ; 
but I fear me ye may not be merry. My wife is 
unco' gtiid, as the canny Scots would say ; but — 

I 'm yet a sinner 

Who loveth dinner, 
And fain would see you gay ; 

I fear not folly, 

I 'd e'er be jolly, 
Nor work when I can play. 

JESTER — O, nuncle, thou mak'st me weary. 

Sir T. — How now, gentle Jester, an why dost 

repine ? 
Jester — It is my sweet privilege to play the fool, 

and it likes me not when you begin. 
Sir T. — You rascally lout, what mean you ? 
Jester — Know you not there is a time for all 

things ? The mistress would have us gay, but 

she hath sense to know that they only can be 

truly happy who are truly good. 

You, my wicked lord, nor I, nor no man 
E'er can happy be as noble woman. 

Women — Hear, hear ; good for the Jester. 
Men (derisively) — Oh, oh ! 

Sir T. — Ah, you sly dog, you know how to make 
friends where friends are worth the having. 



Lady G. — Thank you, boy. None need have 
fear we shall be too serious. And now, to 
begin, let us sing " The First Nowell." 

Sir T. — One moment, an it please you. (To 
Jester.) Boy, come hither! (Whispers to 
Jester, who runs out.) I hope it is no offense, 
but at the last Yulctide the words of these 
same Christmas Carols slipped so villainously 
from our minds that we sang but illy, — and it 
is no marvel, for we sing them but once the 
year, — so I bethought me to send to London, 
and Master Evans hath sent me here the 
words, in good fair type, that all may read, 
and, not fearing to slip, may sing right lustily. 
Boys, give out the songs. Now will we sing 
" The First Nowell." (They sing.) 

Jester — Nuncle, that is a goodly song. It re- 
freshed! my spirits. If you had a soul, I think 
it would do it good. 

Sir T. — If I had a soul, blockhead; and why 
have I not ? 

Jester — I give it up. I know not why. 

SIR T. — But what proof hast thou that I have 

Jester — Art a philosopher and askest me to 
prove a negative ? It resteth for thee to prove 
that thou hast. 

SIR T. — And how can it be done, my .pretty 
knave ? 

JESTER — Marry — (Sings) 

Now, mark me! do/ 

But show a ray 

Of love for inc. 

It goeth far 

To prove thy soul. 

Now, say not la / 

Eut let us see 

Your cake 's not dough. 

SIR T. — Good, fool! By all the saints, this is 
admirable nonsense. Thou hast earned the 
cross, and shalt bear it. (Giving money.) 

JESTER — Oh, no; I'm not musical for nothing. 
I can not draw silver music from a heart of flint. 
Not I, forsooth. 'T is the caitiff wretch that 
bideth round the corner. 

Sir T. — Now, let the frolic begin. Ho, Gregory! 
Hugo ! go bid my hinds bring hither the Yule 
log. (Exeunt G. and H.) Now, friends, be- 
think you that Care 's an enemy of life. As 
saith Young Hamlet : " What should a man 
do but be merry ? " Master Shakspere giveth 
us another good text in Richard II.: "Be 
merry, for our time of stay is short." Let 
us all stand up and shout for Yuletide joy. 

" Come, bring with a noise, 
My merry, merry boys, 
The Christmas Log to the firing. 
While my good dame she 
Bids ye all be free 
And drink to your health's desiring." 

Lady G. — Let us raise our voices in the grand 

old carol, " From Far Away." 
SIR T. — Ah, good wife, thou choosest well. I 

love that same old song. 
Lady G. — Be seated all. Frame your minds to 

mirth and merriment, for now 't is seasonable. 
Sir T. — Boy, can not you sing? Too much carol 

maketh me sad. I fain would have a stirring 

ditty — or a rollicking ballad. 
Jester — Ah, master, Heaven is not so partial to 

any mortal as to make him beautiful, and 

wise, and then to gild him with the power of 

(Stand and hurrah. 
Log brought in. ) 

Ladies wave handkerchiefs. 

song. I'm no nightingale, nor be I a lark 
(though perchance at times I aid one, — but 
that is apart). 

Ladies — Oh, sing, sweet youth. 

JESTER — It ill beseemeth me to say you nay. To 
decline mayhap were more inglorious than 
to fail, but i' faith I can not. I 'm coltish to- 

Sir T. — Coltish ? What mean'st thou ? 




JESTER — Why, a little hoarse. An it please you, 
ask Master Rivers to sing. He hath a mar- 
velous fine voice, and knoweth a ballad 't would 
make ye merry to hear. 

Lady G. — Thou speakest well. Good Master 
Rivers, favor us, an thou wilt, with thy an- 
tique song. 

MASTER R. — An it please you, my lady, I '11 sing 
from now till Michaelmas. 

Jester — Oh, not so long, good master. Be brief, 
if you would win our love. 

(Master Rivers sings " The Leather Battel" 
from "Pan Pipes." All clap hands and cry 

Sir T. — My thanks, good friend. The perform- 
ance doth thee credit. I would I had thy 
voice — and thy years. Well, sweet wife, 't is 
thy choice next. What wilt thou offer to our 
guests and the general joy ? 

Lady G. — Good my lord, our little grandchild, 
Edith, hath a verse. Brief is it, but beautiful. 
'T was writ by Master George Herbert, and 
" Lovejoy " calls he it. Come hither, Edith. 
Now, sweet child, say thy little lines. (Edith 

S on a window late I cast my 

I saw a vine drop grapes with 

J and C 
Anneal'd on every bnnch. 

One standing by 
Ask'd what it meant. I (who 

am never loath 
To spend my judgment) said : 

" It seem'd to me 
To be the body and the letters 

Of Joy and Charity." "Sir, 

you have not missed," 
The man replied. " It figures 

Jesus Christ" 

'f/l((^^ == ^ =s ^^ := ^ py Sir T.— "Sweet in- 
l(U^2* vocation of a child, most 

<J\> pretty and most pathetical." Now will we 
have a bit from a bright play. My servant, 
Gregory, is no Burbage, but he doth some- 
thing smack ; he hath a kind of taste for the 
players' art, and will now give you the speech 
of Launce, from " The Two Gentlemen of Ve- 
rona." The dog you see not. 'T is "in his 
mind's eye." Sirrah, stand forth. (Gregory 
recites Act. IT., Sc. 3.) (Applause.) 

(Singing without : " God rest thee, Merry Gentlemen.'') 

Lady G. — 'T is the Waits singing from door to door. 
When they have done we will bid them enter. 
(Waits conclude their carol.) Good my lord, 
may we not call them in to share our festivity ? 

Sir T. — Marry will we. Jester, bid you the 

minstrels to come in and sing for us again. 
They discourse most excellent music. (Waits 
enter and sing again: " The Boar's Head 
Carol" or some carol for male voices.) 

Sir T. — 'T is well ; 't is very well. Perchance the 
Waits are dry. Belike you all may be, for so 
in sooth am I. Hugo, bring hither the lov- 
ing-cup. Break this respectful stillness. You 
have been staid too long. (General talk, 
very brisk and voluble. Loving-cup passed.) 

SIR T. — (Resuming seat.) Now, neighbors all, 
again let quiet reign. We '11 have another 
Christmas song. (Waits sing : " What Maid 
Was This?" from " Christinas Carols Old and 

JESTER — Sir Twistem, methinks that song was 
e'en as good as the other one. 

SIR T. — No more, my sweet fool. Thou need'st 
not think to match thy crossed shilling. 

JESTER — Ah, good my lord, think not I care for 
thy silver ; 't was the winning gave me joy. 
But I love music ; my soul longeth for it. I 
suck sweet melancholy from a song as thou 
suckest a dull brain from thy potations. 

SIR T. — Sirrah, thou abusest thy privilege. I 
care not for ale, nor is my brain befogged. 

Jester — -Then, speaking of silver, canst thou tell 
me why a boxed rat is like a man becoming 
short of money ? 

Sir T. — Beshrew me, boy, I can not answer. 

JESTER — Because, look you, it will be a gnawing 
to get out. 

Sir T. — Go to! annoying. A villainous jest, 
i' faith. 

Jester — Nuncle, where hadst thou this fine 

Sir T. — Of Master Davenant at the Crown Inn, 

Jester — Of Master Davenant ! Then why is the 
Crown Inn like Jacob's Well ? 

SIR T. — I know not that, either. 

Jester — Because, hark ye, he brews drink there. 

SIR T. — Go to, thou art too subtle for me. He 
brews drink! 'T is passing good! (Wipes 
tears.) Hebrews drink — to be sure. I won- 
der not that the melancholy Jacques would 
fain wear motley. By the way — that same 
sad man reminds me — (Addresses Waits). My 
good friends, could ye sing for us that fine 
song the huntsmen sing in the forests of 
Arden, as 't is done at the Curtain theater ? 

Waits — Aye, good my lord, that can we. 

SIR T. — We must have a little spice withal, or the 

carols will pall upon our taste. (Waits sing, 

" What shall He have who Kills the Deer?" 

from the Boosey collection.) (The bystanders 

in the scene applaud.) 


I 49 

I (! 



Lady G. — Lady Beatrice, wilt thou not sing for us 
that quaint old ballad that I love so well? 

Lady B. — If it is thy pleasure, I can not decline. 
(LadyB. sings"- O, Mistress Mine," or " Phil- 
lida Flouts Me," from " Pan Pipes.") (Noise 

Lady G. — Good my lord, what noise is this with- 

SIR T. — It must e'en be those merry roisterers 
who follow The Lord of Misrule. Fear them 
not, they are but somewhat rude. They '11 do 
no ill. Some there are, poor souls, who know 
no way to show their joy but by making a 
monstrous noise. 
(Enter The Lord of Misrule and followers with music, 

hobby-horse, etc. They dance and distribute papers, for 

which they receive pennies. A poor child comes with 


Lady G. — Ah ! dear little mouse. Bring hither 
thy Christmas-box. Soon may 't be full. 

(Roisterers exeunt.) 

JESTER — (yawning) I have an exposition of 
sleep come upon me, nuncle. Is to-day to-mor- 
row, or yesterday? If too full we fill one day, 
't will spill and spoil the next. I fain would 
niggard with a little rest. Christmas joys are 
well, but — 

' A surfeit of the sweetest things 
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings." 

Sir T. — Thou art not altogether a fool. The time 
draws near, "so I regreet the daintiest last 
to make the end most sweet." Dear heart, 
what shall be the final act in this our Yule- 
tide play ? 

Lady G. — Glad are our hearts. Peace, plenty, 
and joy smile upon all. Let our last act on 
the birthday of our Lord be the union of our 
voices in praising His name. Let us sing 
" Gloria in Excelsis." ( All sing.) 
(At the close, curtain falls.) 

Note : Almost all the songs named in the text can be obtained by ordering through music-dealers, and most of the waits and carols are 
to be found in the " English Melodies " and " Sacred Series" of the collection called " The Choralist." Of course, when necessary, other 
old songs and carols may be substituted at will, for those mentioned here. 

«rtiui« r **&>*. 

i. Clip, clip, whip, whip, Pa - per all the pat - ty pans, And 

rr~i_j j~p J J. 

=^--gj=K=5= |__«jjjj zig= g 1 

Cakes to beat the ba - ker- man's, — So whip with all your might. 


Whisk, whisk, brisk, brisk, 
Soon the whites will stand alone, 
The sugar 's all stirred thin ; 

Whisk, whisk, frisk, frisk, 
Out is every raisin-stone, 
And now the flour goes in. 


Beat, beat, fleet, fleet, 
Sprinkle in the spicery 
And patter on the plums ; 

Beat, beat, sweet, sweet, 
Bake it in a trice-a-ree, 
For here the Taster comes ! 


(A new version of an old rhyme. ) 

THERE was a young lady — and, what do you think ? 
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink. 
Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet, 
And yet this young lady scarce ever was quiet. 

■;.'■' ■.:'::! M 





If I were to ask you to shut your eyes and try to 
fancy that Christmas stood before you, what would 
you see ? Ah ! not one, but many. Some of you 
would see, in your mind's eye, an old man with 
long, white, frosty beard and kindly face, his 
brave form draped in a sparkling robe of snow 
decked with icicles — old Father Christmas from 
top to toe. Some would see another sort of fig- 
ure, — a round, roly-poly, jolly personage, dressed 
in furs from crown to sole, laughing in every feat- 
ure of his plump, ruddy face, all aglow after driv- 
ing his Dunder and Blixen, and half hidden by his 
great sleigh-load of toys. Some of you, again, 
would see nothing but the toys, and your only 
thought, I shudder to say, would be, " Which of 
them are for me ? " Some of you would see no 
fancied personage at all ; but glorious winter with- 
out, and within doors a bright home, a glowing 
hearth, and allthe family eager towelcomeyou from 
school for the happy holiday week. And a great 
many of you would scarcely close your eyes before 
the beautiful Christ-child would come and fill your 
soul with love and joy and gratitude ; and your 
one next thought would be to give happiness to 
many, to make other hearts as glad as your own 
on the Perfect Day. 

So it would be ; and all would be looking out of 
themselves and into themselves. Meantime, waves 
of happiness and of sadness from the great, busy 
world would be rolling by, too softly to be dis- 
tinctly heard — and then ! — 

There 's a saucy sparrow for you ; to think of a 
tiny bird like that — one of my best little friends, 
too — ■ whispering me to end my discourse ; assur- 
ing me that the children understand me perfectly, 
but are quite ready to hear about something else. 
He says, too, that the St. Nicholas Christmas is, 
after all, an early bird like himself, and there is 
plenty of time for all things. — Ah, well. Your 

giver of wholesome advice must ever stand ready 
to take a like benefit. So I '11 heed Mr. Sparrow, 
and wishing you many happy returns of all good 
visions, good thoughts, and blessed occasions, I '11 
give out this pretty winter song in short words. 
It is sent you by our friend Eudora S. Bumstead, 
and is called 


Now the snow is on the ground, 

And the frost is on the glass ; 
Now the brook in ice is bound 

And the great storms rise and pass. 
Bring the thick, gray cloud; 

Toss the flakes of snow ; 
Let your voice be hoarse and loud, 

And blow, wind, blow ! 

When our day in school is done 

Out we come with you to play. 
You are rough, but full of fun, 

And we boys have learned your way. 
All your cuffs and slaps 

Mean no harm, we know; 
Try to snatch our coats and caps, 

And blow, wind, blow ! 

You have sent the flowers to bed ; 

Cut the leaves from off the trees ; 
From your blast the birds have fled ; 

Now you do what you may please. 
Yes ; but by and by 

Spring will come, we know. 
Spread your clouds, then, wide and high, 

And blow, wind, blow ! 


" THE other day," writes a newfriend, "G. B.," 
" I heard a boy say that his father had come home 
from a long voyage with his 'pocket full of rocks. ' 
And when I remarked that his father must be a sort 
of giant to wear a pocket big enough to put rocks 
in, he laughed at me and said he meant money 
when he said rocks. 

" Since then I have heard of real stone money. 
The inhabitants of the Marshall Islands in the Pa- 
cific Ocean use it. Their stone money is a kind 
that is found on the Pelew Islands, and is shaped 
like grind-stones. Some of them are so large that 
a single one may weigh two and even three tons." 


WILL my youngest American hearers — my 
very youngest — please give me their attention ? 

Ah, here you are ! Well, my little ones, as 
you very soon are to begin to learn your letters, 
if, indeed, you are not already learning them, it 
may interest you to know that the babies of other 
countries, as well as baby Americans, are expected 
to know their alphabets at a very early age ; and 
some of them, because there are more letters in 
their alphabets, have even a harder time than you 
do. Some, again, have less to learn. For in- 
stance, as a sprightly and learned correspondent 
informs this pulpit, the Sandwich Island alphabet 



has only twelve letters ; the Burmese, nineteen ; 
the Italian, twenty; the Bengalese, twenty-one; 
the Hebrew, Syriac, Chaldee, Samaritan, and 
Latin, twenty-two each ; the French, twenty- 
three; the Greek, twenty-four; the German and 
Dutch, twenty-six each ; the Spanish and Slav- 
onic, twenty-seven each. But, on the other hand, 
the Arabic has twenty-eight ; the Persian and 
Coptic, thirty-two; the Georgian, thirty-five; 
the Armenian, thirty-eight ; the Russian, forty- 
one ; the Muscovite, forty-three ; the Sanscrit and 
Japanese, fifty ; the Ethiopic and Tartaric, two hun- 
dred and two. 

If this information bewilders you, my poor little 
letter- learners, don't mind it. It will keep. One 
of these days you will be big and able to play tag, 
and, later on, base-ball in all these languages. 
Then, a few letters, more or less, in any one of 
them, will be a matter of small consequence to 
you. Even now, I dare say, after what I have 
told you, you 'd be able to play with the letter- 
blocks of any country. In truth, if I were you, 
I think I should prefer a box of Ethiopic or Tar- 
taric letter-blocks to begin with. 

If you wish, I '11 mention this matter to Santa 


Charleston, S. C. 
Dear Jack-in-the-P(."lpit : I saw in your department an inci- 
dent called " Have You Seen Him ? " by a little boy who signs him- 
self " E. P. McE." I think I can tell him what it is. It issometimes 
called a sand-fiddler. I have often seen these funny little sand-fiddlers 
on the beach at Sullivan's Island, near this city. They are somewhat 
like a baby crab, and are very funny little creatures. You can see 
clean through them. 

This is the first letter I have ever written to you. 

Your loving reader, L. G. W., Jr. 


What is this strange news that comes to me ? 
Can it be true that human beings are to-day pro- 
posing to sell to young folks patent soap-bubblers 
that are " warranted to blow a hundred soap-bub- 
bles without re-filling"? Warranted to blow 
them ! Think of that ! Who wants one ? Not 
I, nor mine. Do you, my children ? As if the 
great charm of blowing bubbles were not in the 
uncertainty of getting any at all ! It makes me 
furious to think of the effect such a tool as this 
would have upon a child's character. Like as not, 
too, the patent bubbles, so blown, are warranted 
not to burst — pah ! Think of it, my youngsters, 
you who have seen real ones — those beautiful, 
floating, shining, picture-y things that go out in a 
diamond-twinkle almost as soon as you look at 
them ! Now, I '11 wager that these hundred 
patented bubbles go rolling about the house till 
they are dusty ! Perhaps children may even get 
an occasional hurt by stubbing their toes against 
the tough globules — who knows ? and Mamma 
may chide the servants for allowing such danger- 
ous things to lie around. — Warranted indeed ! 


Here is a letter from Anna M. Talcott, who first 
put the " Fruit and Vegetable " question, and 

you have a right to see it ; though your Jack must 
say that the matter is not yet quite settled. 

Albany, N. Y. 
Dear JACK: I was much pleased to read the 
letters in the September number of ST. NICHOLAS 
from Anna J. H., Arthur J. Sloan, Jessie T., Wini- 
fred Johnson, and Elsie M. R. I wish to thank 
them all, as well as those whose letters did not 
appear in print. All I can say in answer to the 
above-mentioned letters is to ask if corn, beans, 
pease, tomatoes, pumpkins, and squash are not 
considered vegetables? I thought I had discov- 
ered the difference when a friend told me vegeta- 
bles were served with meats, and fruits never, until 
I remembered cranberries and apple-sauce. Some 
one suggested looking out the derivation of the 
different words. There must be a difference, or a 
man would never put up a sign in our street that 
he sold "Fruit and Vegetables." 
Yours distractedly, 

Anna M. Talcott. 

what the knowing poet heard puss say. 

My friend, John P. Lyons, who evidently is a 
poetical stenographer of the most expert kind, 
sends you the following faithful report of a modest 
cat's soliloquy: 

Before the blazing fire, on a downy Turkish rug, 
Lay Pussy gently napping, quite as snug as any bug : 
She looked supremely happy, and most musically purred, 
Nor imagined for a moment she was being overheard ; 
But I happened to be present and caught every word she said, 
And this is quite the train of thought that ran in Pussy's head : 
" Oh, what a grand and glorious thing it is to be a cat ! 
Yes, every day I live, I gTOw more positive of that. 

" For all the great, big, busy world — as is quite right and meet ! 
Comes humbly every day to lay its tribute at my feet : — 
Far down within the damp, dark earth the grimy miner goes, 
That I on chilly nights may have a fire for my toes ; 
Brave sailors plow the wintry main, through peril and mishap, 
That I, on Oriental rugs, may take my moming nap : 
Out in the distant meadow meekly graze the lowing kine, 
That milk, in endless saucerfuls, all foaming, may be mine ; 

' The fish that swim the ocean, and the birds that fill the air — 
Did I not like their bones to pick, pray think you they 'd be there ? 
But first, of all who wait on me, pre-eminent is man ; 
For me he toils through all the day, and through the night doth 

Especially the gentleman who keeps this house for me, 
And takes such thoughtful, anxious care, that I should suited be. 
He 's stocked his rare old attic with the finest breed of mice, — 
A little hunting, now and then, comes in so very nice ! 

11 And furthermore, the thoughtful man, a wife has married him, 
To tidy up the house for me, and keep it neat and trim ; 
And both of them with deference my slightest fancy treat ; 
And as I 'm quite fastidious about the things I eat, 
Thev never offer me a dish, to please my appetite, 
Until they 've tasted it themselves, to see if all is right ; 
And to entice my palate, when it 's cloyed with other things, 
All fattening in a gilded cage, a choice canary swings. 

1 But best of all, they 're training up, with pains that can't be told. 
Their children, just to wait on me, when they have grown too old. 
Ah, truly I am monarchess of all that I survey: 
No rules or laws I recognize, no bells or calls obey. 
I eat and sleep, and sleep and eat, nor ever have 1 toiled; 
No kind of base, degrading work my paws has ever soiled. 
Oh, truly 't is a gladsome thing to be a pussy-cat ! 
I 'm truly glad, when I was born, I stopped to think of that." 

By Elizabeth W. Champney. 

Paper dolls may be made to serve as Christmas 
cards, and at the same time as an ingenious me- 
dium for conveying a gift of money, in a way which 
is sure not to offend, 

Select comical heads from cards or pictures, and 
make bodies of stiff cardboard. Dress your dolls 
in colored tissue-paper, folding new, clean bank- 
notes to serve as aprons or ruffles (see No. 2), or 
as shawls, petticoats, or other articles of clothing 
(see No. 3 and No. 4). 

" I am de jolly waiter-gal 

Who rings de bell for tea. 
I 's brought you here a plate ob jam 
As nice as nice can be ! " 

The portrait of Lady Washington on a silver- 
certificate, may be utilized as the head of one 
doll. Fold the bill very neatly, and stitch it so 
lightly to the pasteboard body that it can be 
removed without damage. A mob-cap of white 
tissue-paper, trimmed and tied with very narrow 
ribbon, will conceal the back of the head, and 
the rest of the dress should be in "Colonial" 
style (see No. 3). 

Silver dollars may also be used (see No. 1, 
where the waiter-girl holds one). It is inserted 
into a slit in the pasteboard and represents a silver 
salver. On this may be fastened an ordinary 
china button, and, with a drop of sealing wax in 

the center, it will fairly imitate a plate of jam. The 
silver dollar may also be treated as in No. 6, us- 
ing the head of the Goddess of Liberty by care- 
fully pasting tis- 
sue-paper of the 
same color as 
the card's back- 
ground over the 
rest of the dol- 
lar, so as to bring 
out the profile 
of the goddess 
en silhouette. A 
jaunty little mod- 
ern bonnet can 
be added, and 
will still further 
disguise the 
origin of the 

" i '11 sweep your room, Miss Mary Ann, 
And keep it neat and clean. 
I '11 do the very best I can, 
Although I be quite green." 


Take off my cap, — cut off my head 
Just underneath my collar ! 

Although you would not think it, 
'T is worth a silver dollar ! " 



Or, using the " eagle " side of your coin, you illustrations was given last Christmas by two children 

may give it, as an emblazoned shield, to a knight, to their aunties. With the accompanying doggerel 

gayly equipped in plate-armor of silvered paper, lines, they created much amusement. Other 

while feathers plucked from your pillow methods will suggest themselves to 
stream from his helmet like the plume 

of Navarre. 

The set of dolls represented in our 

our young workers. It is sometimes 
well to consider the tastes or fancies 
of the recipient in preparing the gift. 

I 's heard dat dis kind family 

Has brought up lots of chil'- 


I 's come to nuss 'em for you ; 

You '11 find me kind and 


I am a proud Knight-Templar, 
As you can plainly see, 

And none but one more brave 
than I, 
Can take my shield from me." 


I 'm sure you 're glad to see 


Hard-featured though I be ; 

And if you wish to cut me up, 

Why, take the Liberty." 


By Mary N. Prescott. 

ELL me, little bird, 
You stay when the 
snow is here ? 
Have you not wings to 
To some happier at- 
mosphere ? 

" I love the wild dance 
of the snow, 
And the berries, frosty 
and red; 

Why should I hasten to go, 
When here is my daily bread ? 

And if my notes are but few, 

When you think of the thrush and the jay, 
What can a little bird do, 

But sing on through the storm, as he may? 

' Chickadee-dee-dee-dee,' 
Perhaps some one is glad to hear 

Just this frolic whistle from me 
In the songless time of the year." 


Readers of St. Nicholas who are members of "The King's 
Daughters," and all who are interested in Mrs. Alice Wellington 
Rollins's paper in our issue for January, 1887, will be glad to know 
that the Society has lately begun the publication of an official organ 
called " The Silver Cross." This periodical is issued under the aus- 
pices of the Central Council of " The King's Daughters," and all 
communications concerning it may be addressed to Mrs. M. L. 
Dickinson, 230 West 59th St., New York City. 

Cando, Dakota. 
Editor of St. Nicholas: I have just finished reading Mrs. H. 
P. Handy's "True Story of a Dakota Blizzard." I have lived in 
Dakota nearly four years and would like to correct one or two of her 
statements. She is much mistaken about how much snow falls here 
during the winter. We have a great deal more than falls in Mis- 
souri. We had over three feet of snow last winter, and still more 
falls in the southern part of Dakota. I live only forty miles from Devil's 
Lake, so of course there is no difference in the snowfall there and 
here. Then again, blizzards very seldom or never (and they never 
have in my experience) come up very suddenly. It begins blowing 
and gradually grows worse until you can not see any distance, 
scarcely, and during that time people had better keep in the house 
and not risk their lives for the sake of attending to the stock, for it 
does not stay so bad very long. I have seen many blizzards, and only 
twice, and but for a few minutes then, it was so thick that we could 
not see our barn. It is strange every one writes about the terrible 
Dakota blizzards, and the few people lost in them, and never seem 
to think that in their own States there are six or seven sunstrokes a 
day during the summer. I don't mean to say we have no bad blizzards 
here; but people who have been here and are wise have things so pre- 
pared that when one comes they do not have to go out in them. 
Hoping these remarks may remove a wrong impression some have 
entertained, I remain, Yours respectfully, B. A . 

Fargo, Dakota. 

Editor St. Nicholas: In the story entitled "What Dora 
Did," published in the September number of your delightful maga- 
zine, the opening paragraphs contain what purports to be a description 
of a Dakota blizzard. As the writer was not herself an eye-witness, 
merely giving the testimony of another, and her statements are not 
in accordance with the facts, I ask the privilege of correcting them. 
A blizzard is indeed a high wind that sweeps over the treeless 
prairies of the North-west, but it does not bring with it a "shower 
or fog of ice." If there is snow on the ground it is taken up and 
whirled about by the wind, as it is very dry, entirely unlike the 
damp, heavy snow that falls in the Eastern States, and it requires 
but a short time for the air to become filled with the flying par- 
ticles. If there was no snow on the ground there would be none 
in the air, and the blizzard would lose its terrors if those com- 
pelled to face it were warmly clothed. The statement that "owing 
to the extreme cold very little snow falls in Dakota " is also erroneous. 
The last two winters have been extremely severe in this latitude, and 
the snowfall each season as heavy as has been known since the coun- 
try was opened for settlement. Indeed, the winters when very little 
snow falls are the exception, not the rule, fortunately for the coun- 
try. During the cold season it is much more comfortable as well 
as pleasanter to move around in sleighs than in wheeled vehicles, 
and when the spring thaw comes the ground absorbs the melting 
snow and insures conditions suitable for seeding. 

A genuine blizzard is of very rare occurrence in this latitude. 
During the four years of my residence here I have never known 
but one; that was on the 12th of January, 18S8, and lasted but a few 
hours. There were no lives lost in this or the adjoining counties 
of Dakota or Minnesota, and the storm hardly deserves mention be- 
side the death-dealing wind that swept over Southern Dakota, Iowa, 
and Nebraska on that terrible day. 

If any reader of St. Nicholas wishes to visit Northern Dakota, 
even in the winter, I assure him he need not be prevented by fear 
of the " icy fog that comes sweeping down from Behring Strait," as, 
did that far-off locality originate such a phenomenon, its force would 
be so far spent in sweeping over Alaska and British America there 
would be very little left to expend upon Dakota. M. N. H. 

Karlsruhe, Baden, Germany. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Though we have taken you for several 
years none of us have ever written to you before. I think that 
" Little Lord Fauntleroy " is the nicest story I ever read, and every 
one that I know that has read it agrees with me. "Donald and 
Dorothy," "His One Fault," and "Juan and Juanita" are also 
among my favorites. I was very much interested in the paper 
about "The Rocking-Stone of Tandil," that appeared in the March 
number of this year, because I was born in the Argentine Republic, 
in the town of Buenos Ayres, and though I never saw the stone 
itself, 1 have heard a great deal about it. The Gaucho chief, 
Rosas by name, was afterward elected President of Buenos Ayres. 
At first he ruled well, but afterward became a great tyrant. All 
the natives were compelled to wear red waistcoats ; if they refused 
they were buried in the earth with only their heads sticking out, 
and then spears and daggers were thrown at them. Rosas after- 
ward died in England. We came here about five months ago from 
Buenos Ayres. We were exactly four weeks on the voyage. I 
have four brothers and two sisters, and I am the eldest girl, but have 
one brother older than myself. Most of your readers will be sur- 
prised to hear that I have never seen snow, there being no such 
thing in Buenos Ayres. I should like very much to correspond 
with a girl of my own age in some foreign land. I' hope one of 
your readers will write to me and tell me something about the land 
she lives in, and I in return will tell her about Buenos Ayres and 

I am thirteen years old and rather small for my age. We have been 
having holidays, but to-morrow we begin school again. I hope my 
letter will be printed, as I have never written to you before, and I 
have never seen any letters from Karlsruhe in your pages. 

Your constant reader, Elinor Cooper. 

Chateau d'Hennemont, 
St. Germain-en-Laye, Seine-et-Oise. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little Portuguese girl, five years old. 
I have taken you for three months, — since I came from Lisbon, — 
and I love you already very, very much. 

I have a pet, a dear little animal called " Aoutas." We are four 
little friends who live in a park. We eat heaps of doul'ons, but we 
devour you with still more pleasure. Risie, 

A small girl. 

Lisbon, Mich. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I want to tell you, with the thousands 
who do so constantly, what a blessing you have been in our home. 
We all love you, but you seem most especially to belong to our 
Queenie (my sister Faye), who for several years has not been able 
to leave her throne-chair, except for her bed at night. She is a 
prisoner in her own palace, which is our country home, where she is 
shut up with flowers and books and all beautiful things that may be 
brought to her. She is anxious for me to write to you and tell you 
how you have made so many hours of her imprisonment bright, 
how you have given her glimpses of the great world of which 
she has seen so little, and how you have made her forget pain 
by your charming pictures and stories. She has many friends who 
visit her — some whom she has never seen sending her gifts and 
greetings from afar ; but of them all none are more faithful to her 
than you. 

Perhaps your boys and girls may like to know how a little country 
girl may be a Queen whose subjects bow before her almost wor- 
shiping. Her scepters are love and faikucc, and they rule all 
who know her. 

I am most of the year in the bright, growing city of Grand 
Rapids, where I have a large circle of child acquaintances who 
share my admiration for St. Nicholas. For them I send you 
greeting, as well as for our little Queen, and for myself, her 
faithful subject. I am, dear Saint, 

Yours sincerely, Myrtle K . 

Spuyten Duyvil, New York. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Buddie Holt, of Spuyten Duyvil, New 
York City, who has sent two letters to you, this morning sat in 
bed thinking out an improvement on a riddle that was in the St. 



Nicholas. His is: " Blue is red, and red is gray. The blue flame 
of a coal fire which first comes, is the answer for blue ; the red flame 
which conies second, is the answer for red; and the smoke is the 
answer for the gray. 

As Buddie is only seven years old, I think this is well worth send- 
ing, the answer being quite amusing. Buddie wants to send the child 
who guesses the riddle a scrap-book he will make. I am his cousin, 
and he is my little pet. I see him every day. 

Susan E. B . 

Albany, N. Y. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I inclose a copy of a letter from Charles 
I. to Mr. Hyde. It was intercepted by Cromwell, and is said to 
have been deciphered by Milton, then Latin Secretary to the Pro- 
tector. Perhaps your intelligent little readers may like to puzzle 
their heads over it. The truth is that though an ingenious contriv- 
ance it is not a difficult one to see through. I give the explanation 
below. Very truly yours, J. M. C . 

sn i amregtn i 

aso t ecneh 

n n r 


a e 


r h 

e a Kj . P 

1 h u y 



" y y s 



e 1 i 
P ' 

1 P h 

u s t 


h d n e s J\^.u oymohw ( 1 

e r a c J_/. e k a t 

1 g 


t a { 


: s. 

enjoyed her stories so much, and I do so long to be as good and 
true a woman. Before I bid you good-bye I must tell you about 
my horse " Nellie." Papa gave her to me on my birthday, and I think 
she is very intelligent. She upset the pail of water in her feed-box 
and it interfered with her. What did she do but take hold of the 
handle with her teeth, lift out the pail, and place it on the floor of her 
stall. After drinking the water and emptying her box she deliberately 
lifted the pail up by the handle and put it back into the box. She 
had never been taught such a trick. ' ' Nellie " and the St. Nicholas 
are my own especial property. 1 am very proud of them. 

Your little friend, Lilian H. H . 

Greenwood Ave. School, Hyde Park, III. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I thought I would write to you about the 
crow our teacher brought to school. Well, the crow's name is "Jim." 
" Jim " eats hard-boiled eggs, and sometimes little pieces of me;it. 
Sometimes " Jim " is bad and flies around the room, so he had to have 
his wings clipped. Our teacher got "Jim "in the country. Her name 
is Miss Elmendorf. She is a nice teacher, and the crow likes her. 
The crow likes children very much. 

Your little friend, Tom H . 

Nine years old. ' 

Blaifsax, near Nice, France. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little French girl, and a great 
admirer of your beautiful maga2ine, which I receive since three 

We are, my sister and I, very fond of all that is American. 

We make photographs. All our outfits were sent from New York. 

We presently study the Russian and German languages. We 
learned English when babies, with an American governess. 

We are subscribers to three magazines from New York: St. 
Nicholas, "The Century," and the "Photographic Times." We 
read very much English not to forget it. 

I have a little Pomeranian dog, just like Mr. Savage Landor's. It 
is very nice; it brings father's pipe every day after luncheon. 

I shall go to America when I am tall. I will not forget to pay you 
a visit, and to tell you how we enjoyed your beautiful stories. 

I hope you shall have the kindness to print my letter, for I would 
be very proud to see it in the columns of your delightful magazine. 
Your truly little friend, Juanita. 

00 a *■ 

W t n 

c y c a 

Hi wdnahtuoys i hhc t a w t 

Explanation: C. S. K. O. E. Charles Stuart, King of England 

Begin at lower right corner and read upward and across to 
diagonally opposite corner. Then from lower right corner across 
bottom and up to diagonally opposite corner. Begin again at same 
point, read diagonally upward, and down the other diagonal. Then 
from the bottom of the vertical cross line up, and from the right of 
the transverse line across. 

"Take Charles to France and thence to Saint Germain. Watch 
his youth and will. Conduct him to the Sieur Lerons. The French 
King will supply you. Have an eye on spies. Set guards on the 
boy. Write me in this cypher. Take care whom you send." 

Washington, D. C. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken you for a long time, and my 
sister took you when you first came out. I know twelve children 
that take you. I think that the story of "Two Little Confederates" 
is lovely. I went to the circus in Syracuse, N. Y., this summer and 
saw a pony jump through a hoop that was on tire, and saw a dog 
dance jigs and turn somersaults. 

I have no pets; I do not like any animals excepting horses and 
dogs. My sister is very fond of dolls. She used to have sixteen; 
now she has only eight. Once she had a large wax doll, and she 
dropped it and cracked its head open ; and as the cook was making 
bread, Alamma sent down for some dough to slick it together. 

When the dough was brought up, she stuffed the doll's head with 
it and closed up the crack. But the next morning we found a large 
French roll spread all over the doll's head. Of course the dough had 
risen during the night and squeezed its way out through the crack. 
Good-bye. Your interested reader, Clara E . 

Fresno, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas: We, as a society of girls, send you many 
thanks for the comfort and help you have been to us. 

We have named our society the " L. M. A." in honor of Miss 
Louisa M. Alcott ; and as many of her stories have appeared in the 
St. Nicholas, we thought perhaps the St. Nicholas boys and 
girls would like to hear about one more of the many ways that have 
been devised to honor her memory. 

We meet every Thursday afternoon to read her books, and glean 
from them some of the good things that may help us in our after-life. 
We remain, your interested readers, 

Katie K , President, 

Belle T , Vice-President, 

Julia R , Secretary. 


Dear St. Nicholas : I have at last come to the conclusion that 
I must write to you and tell you what old friends we are. The St. 
Nicholas and 1 were born the same year, and I have taken it since. 
As soon as the year is up, Papa has the books bound for me. I have 
them all complete. I wonder if any other little reader of the St. 
Nicholas can say the same thing. I enjoy them so much and bail 
with delight the coming of my friend each month. How I did en- 
joy " Little Lord Fauntleroy " and " Sara Crewe " ! What sorrow 
came to my heart when we had to p^rt with Miss Alcott! We all 


By M. V. Worstell. 

What is a rainy-day bag? It is one of the most useful articles 
that I ever spent a long summer's day in making. It is nothing 
more nor less than a linen traveling-bag, but very much smaller 
than those commonly seen. The large traveling-bags will hold all 
sorts of shawls and wraps — indeed, like a street-car, its capacity 
never has been fully tested. But my rainy-day bag is small and is 
made to hold nothing more than a waterproof and a pair of over- 

And the convenience of it ! When it looks like rain, one has only 
to take this jaunty little bag along, instead of carrying rubbers, 
dear knows how ! and one's waterproof over the arm, or worse still 
in one of those misshapen little bags sold with waterproofs. 

To make one, it is only necessary to roll your waterproof and 
overshoes into a snug oblong parcel of about the same proportions 
as a child's muff. Note the dimensions — the distance across and 
around. The average size will be about fifteen inches around by nine 
and one-half in width. This will allow an inch for lapping together ; 
and three buttons, with good, firm button-holes, should close it. Put 
one handle on just outside of the buttons and another just outside of 
the button-holes, so that when carrying the bag the tendency will be 



to relieve the strain on the button-holes. The end pieces are circu- 
lar, and measure four and one-half inches in diameter. The bag may- 
be lined with oiled-silk, but drilling of some dark color is as good. 
The material for the outside may be of almost any strong cloth, but 
Adah canvas is particularly recommended, as it does not discolor 
readily, and it is very durable. The even texture, too, will recom- 
mend it to many young people who may wish to embellish the little 
satchel with geometrical designs worked in silk or worsted. Many 
of the larger traveling-bags are trimmed with worsted dress-braid, 
neatly feather-stitched on, and this, too, makes a pretty ornament. 
The handles should be lined with burlap or wiggin, to prevent their 
becoming stringy with use. 

A friend who has made one of these bags, used plain, smooth gray 
linen, and embroidered on it, with crimson wash-silk, in letters 
necessarily small, 

" For the rain it raineth every day." 
Other appropriate mottoes would be : 

" Heigho ! the wind and the rain ! " 

" The rain a deluge showers." 

" The dismal rain came down in slanting showers." 

" Water, water all around." 

" Here 's to the pilot that weathered the storm." 

" Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky." 

" No loud storms annoy." 

" When the stormy winds do blow." 

The mottoes may be put on in a slanting direction, as it is not 
desirable to have them too legible. An outline picture, worked in 
silks, of a little boy or girl under an umbrella, would be pretty. 

With one more suggestion I will close. When they are large 
enough, these same rubber-bags sold with waterproofs make the 
best possible lining for the rainy-day bag. 

Limoges, France. 
My Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken your lovely magazine 
for three years. A gentleman, a dear friend, sends it to me. I do en- 
joy the stories so much, especially " Sara Crewe" and "Juan and 
Juanita." I was so sorry to hear of Miss Alcott's death. I think 
her stories were beautiful, and I know all the little readers of St. 
Nicholas will miss her. I think your magazine the nicest maga- 
zine I have ever read, and when my little friends come to see me we 
enjoy the pictures so much. They can not read English, so I ex- 
plain to them in French. I do not like this place very much. The 
people are very superstitious and hang bouquets under the windows 
to drive away the " witches." The other day the archbishop came 
here, and all the people ran up to him as he was coming out of 
church to kiss his rings and hands. I would rather be home at 
my grandpa's in the country, playing with a big black dog named 
"Watch." He is very intelligent and brings the cows home every 

night. But one day he was too smart. My uncle went to the lot 
to bring home some hay, and "Watch" thought he wanted the 
cows, so he brought them. But poor " Watch " for his trouble had 
a good scolding and was told to take them back. Wishing that St. 
Nicholas came every week instead of every month, I remain, 

Your affectionate little reader, Mamie C. G . 

Suffern, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken your delightful magazine for 
five years, and think your stories are tlie best I have ever read. 
" Juan and Juanita," " Little Lord Fauntleroy," and " Sara 
Crewe " are my favorites. My sister and I have a little dog named 
"Nellie." She is very pretty and knows six tricks. We are all 
very fond of her. Besides " Nellie " we have two large dogs, " Jack " 
and " Nero," and a little mule. I wish Mrs. Hodgson Burnett 
would write a sequel to " Little Lord Fauntleroy," for I think all 
the readers of St. Nicholas must have been very sorry when it 
ended. I know I was. 

My little brother heard my sister say she intended going to the 
dentist, and he said he had to go, too, to have his " hind teeth fixed." 

I wonder how many of your little friends can say this sentence 
very fast. It has afforded us many hearty laughs. It is: "Of all 
the saws I ever saw saw, I never saw a saw saw as this saw saws." 
Hoping this letter will not stray to the " Riddle-box," but safely 
reach the " Letter-box." I am. 

Your devoted admirer, Mary Violet S . 

The Surf Cottage, 
Block Island, R. I. 
Dear St. Nicholas : A party of girls and boys, staying at this 
hotel, got up some shadow pictures last evening. We had " The 
Ballad of the Oysterman," " Little Miss Muffet," " Simple Simon," 
and "A Little Bachelor." We were very greatly assisted by the 
article in St. Nicholas on the subject. 

Your sincere friend, Elise R . 

We thank the young friends whose names are given below for 
pleasant letters received from them : Gertrude and Howland, N. W. 
W., Dolly Canfield, Winifred H., Louis J. Hall, Thos. W. Hatch, 
Chas. A. Stebbins, Mary E. Cullaton, Clara Ascherfeld, Marion 
Georgie, Eddie B. A., Mabel E. Dibble, Aleen L. M., Maggie W. 
Moring, Gertrude V. L., Jennie R., B. Goddard, Bertha C. Ryer- 
son, Frankie Boyd, Ivy S., Hattie R. B., Clara Earl and Hattie 
Thompson, E. L. S., Marie Prevost, Gertrude Newhall, Bessie W. 
A., Laura Anderson, L. Asher, Ida H. Allen, Lena A. C, N. C. S., 
Annie E. Hamilton, Mary L. G., Naomi Lewis, Bill Jones, A. 
Fiske, Louise S. R., Ethel and M. Whitney, Mary, Josie and 
Laura, Fannie C. W., Marion A., Elsie and Annie D., Nina F. 
Jackson, Clare Allen, Edith Nye, and Gussie T. 


In the August number of St. Nicholas a prize of ten dollars was offered for the best " King's Move Puzzle" received before September 
ist. In response to this invitation, which was extended to all, nearly four hundred puzzles were sent in. They came from all over the 
United States, as well as from Canada, England, Germany, and even far-off Russia ; and were based upon the names of cities, rivers, 
islands, lakes, generals, battles, Biblical characters, musicians, musical instruments, statesmen, artists, inventors, plants, animals, trees, 
games, precious stones, printers, Roman emperors, soldiers, and sailors. 

The prize was to be awarded to the maker of the puzzle " best adapted for use in St. Nicholas." After a careful and rigid examina- 
tion of all the puzzles received, — no easy task ! — the very best one was selected, and will appearin next month's " Riddle-Box." For the 
best twenty-one solutions received to it, t7.uenty-o7ie prizes in cash will be offered. 

In the following Roll of Honor the work of each sender had some special merit which we can not note at greater length except in the 
case of Lida and Sam Whitaker, whose industry deserves special mention. They forwarded a puzzle in which the names of one thousand 
and three cities and towns might be spelled out. 



Charles S. Brown — Josephine L. Williamson — Helen B. O'Sullivan — Mrs. E. D. Ogden — B. de Laguna — Arthur S. Lovejoy — 
Harry L. Johnson — Eddie A. Blount — Helen B. Higbee — E. Macdougall — S. Macdougall — Agnes B. Warburg — M. D. Sterling — 
F. S. Lafhrop — F. E. Stanton — M. F. Reynolds — Jared W. Young— S. Szold — P. H. Black — Anna and Emily Dembitz — Annie 
B. Kerr — Marcus Robbins — Ethel Bobo — J. M. Nye— Clara Ascherfeld— Mrs. Mary A. and Alice C. Hunter— M. A. E. Wood- 
bridge — M. L. Abraham — Fannie and Alice Lee Fearn — Andrew Robeson — Matilda Goudine — Jeannie Perry — " Dumnorix " — 
Maisy Zogealpho — Annie McNeilly — Roe Spaulding — Christine L. Bowen — Grace Fernald — Lily F. A. Melliss — Elizabeth Lewis — 
Helen E. Hoyt. — Beatrice A. Auerbach. 



Concealed Authors, r. Pope, Moore, Scott. 2. Byron, Mil- 
ton, Bulwer. 3. Burns, Sheridan, Addison. 4. Stowe, Aldrich, 
Beecher. 5. Alcott, Burnett, Roe. 6. Southey, Cooper, Cowper. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Baldwin ; finals, Neemuch. Cross- 
words : 1. Babylon. 2. Arsinoe. 3. Laodice. 4. Dianium, 5. 
Watteau. 6. Idiotic. 7. Nineveh. 

Word Syncopations. Tippecanoe. 1. ro-UTE-d. 2. t-RID- 
ent. 3. dr-OPS-y. 4. c-APT-ure. 5. k-EEL-ing. 6. pr-ACT- 
ice. 7. s-TAR-ting. 8. w-INK-ing. g. s-TOP-ped. 10. s-TEA- 

Combination Diamonds. From i to 2, receipt changing; from 
3104, counter-charming. 1. 1. C. 2. Toe. 3. Trunk. 4. Counter. 
5. Entry. 6. Key, 7. R. II. 1. H. 2. Pas. 3. Porte. 4. Harm- 
ing. 5. Sling. 6. Eng. 7. G. III. 1. R. 2. Led. 3. Laces. 

T. IV. 1. H. 
End. 7. G. 

. Daw. 

4. Receipt. 5. Deity. 6. Spy. 
Donee. 4. Hanging. 5. Weird. 

Central Acrostic. Terpsichore Cross-words: 
Arete. 3. Ceres. 4. Cupid. 5. Vesta. 6. Priam. 
Iphis. 9. Thoas. 10. Terra. 11. Irene. 

Star Puzzle. From 1 to 2, parades; 1 to 3, palaver; 2 to 3, 
soldier; 4 to 5, curdled ; 4 to 6, cuddles; 5 to 6, devoirs. 

7. Picus. 


Illustrated Zigzag. Washington Allston. Cross-words: 1, 
Wheel. 2. bAton. 3. baSin. 4. nicHe. 5. alibi. 6. proNg. 7. 
waGon. 8. aTIas. 9. Olive. 10. aNgle. 11. plAte. 12. sheLl. 
13. coraL. 14. flaSk. 15. miTre. 16. mOuse. 17. Notes. 

Word-Squares. I. 1, Stones. 2. Tyrant. 3. Orange. 4. Nan- 
nie. 5. Engird. 6. Steeds. II. 1. Grates. 2. Relent. 3. Alpaca. 
4. Teapot. 5. Encore 6. States. 

Separated Words. First row, Giving thanks ; second row, 
Old homestead. 1. Gash-Older. 2. Idea-List. 3. Vale-Diction. 4. 
Inn-Holder. 5. Nest-Or. 6. Gowns-Man. 7. Tight-Ens. 8. Hand- 
Spike. 9. Aver-Ted. 10. Not-Ed. 11. Key-Age. 12. Sun-Dry. 

Word-Building. A, al, lac, coat, coral, oracle, coracle, caracole. 

Combination Puzzle. From 1 to 2, compassionate; 3 to 4, dis- 

4 to 2, 
4. Pas- 

passionate ; 1 to 3, cerated ; 3 to 2, deplore ; 1 to 4, collate ; 
emulate. Inclosed Diamond : 1. P. 2. Map. 3. Mason, 

Inclosed Diamond 
Poise. 6. Noe. 7. N 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease — 

No comfortable feel in any member — 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 

November. thomas hood 

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from Maud E. Palmer — 
Sharly and Leppy — Paul Reese — Grace Kupfer — May L. Gerrish — Clara O. — Louise Ingham Adams — A. L. — K. G. S. — Russell 
Davis — H. W. Ruggles — Pearl F. Stevens — Ada C. H. — M. Josephine Sherwood — " San Anselmo Valley " — J. Wallie Thompson — 
Fred and Blanch — Aunt Kate, Mamma and Jamie — Nellie L. Howes — Mary W. Stone — Carryl Harper — " My wife and I " — Helen 
C. McCleary — " Mohawk Valley "— " Nig and Mig "— Ida C. Thallon — Alpha Zeta. 

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from G. Shepard and R. and C. 
Willis, 1 — J. A. Smith, 1 — Minnie, Fannie, and Katie, 4 — M. H. B. and B. T. S., 1 — K. L. Segernd, i — " Eureka," 4 — B. Magee, 
1 — N. Altmeg, 1 — Jean W., 1 — Bessie Byfield, 3 — J. Berry, 3 — E. R. Cutter, 1 — M. King, 1 — N. Husted, 9 — " Long Islander," 
4— " Big Lynche," 7 — G. Styer, 1 — F. E. Hecht, 1 — C. W. Miles, 1 — E. Norris and B. Verdenal, 3 —R. L. Barrows, 1 — J. I. H., 
1 — "Gypsy," 5 — Jentie Y., 6 — H. Justice, 1 — M. F. Davis, 1 — J. M. Fiske, 4 — Hildegarde Hawthorne, 3 — Zoe H., 1 — "Pan- 
dora," S — W. F. Brittingham, Jr., 1 — Minerva, Jessamine, and Pansy, 1 — E. B. C, Jr., 2 — M. Markham, 1— J. and N. H., 1 — 
Gretta and Lin, 3 — A. E. Wix, 2 — Ford Wadsworth, 1 — C. A. Studcbaker, 2 — Etta Reilly, 3—" Miss Ouri," 2 — L. S. Palmer, 1 — 
M. Jacobs, 1 — M., M. and E. Stone, 1— A. S. Parsons, 1 — Bill Jones, 4 — R. H., 9— H. W. H., 1 — E. Karst, 1 — L. Voigt, 1 — B. 
L. Mahaffy, 1 — H, E. Mattison, 2 — " Three Readers," 4— "Roxy,"i —"We, Us & Co.," 1 — Rene 2 — W. B., 1 — C. N. Cochrane, 
3 — W. A. Jurgens, 1 — " Grandma, "ro— A. E. Burnham, 2 —"Two Little Sisters," 9 — Julia L. B., 2 — Gracie F., 1 —"The Reids," 
11 — "Joker," 2 — S. K. Hait, 6 — "Joand I," it — "Kettle-drum and Patty-pan," 3 — "Lehte,"n — Colonel and Reg, 5 — Alfred 
and Mamma, 3 — Florence and Louie C, 1 — Mamma, Susie, and Annie, 9 — " Gruoch," 5 — J. W. Hardenburg, 2 — "The Trio," q — 
G. R. Dunham, 2 — " Lillie," 5 — Tom, 1 — " May and 79," 10 — Mattie E. Beale, 4 — Jack and Kittley, 3 — Jennie, Mina, and Isabel 
10-" Northern Lights," 2— May and Nettie P., 1 — Ida and Alice, 10 — A, M. Osborn, 1 — Laura G. L., 4 — M. B. and O. E., 5 — 

Effie K. Talboys, 5 — "Hypatia," 2- 

-A. L. McKean, 1 — N. Beardslee, t — A. Forrester, 3- 
— . N. L. Forsyth, 1 — Tilly G. Davis, 1. 

Walker L. Otis, 4 — B. B. McCormack, 1 


Example : Insert a letter in idle talk, and make a fraud. Answer, 

1. Insert a letter in a masculine name, and make a small, rude 
house. 2. Insert a letter in a possessive pronoun, and make heeds. 
3. Insert a letter in reserve, and make a healing compound. 4. Insert 
a letter in pertaining to wings, and make a sacred place, 5. Insert 
a letter in to gasp, and make to color. 6. Insert a letter in parts of 
the foot, and make books. 7. Insert a letter in certain beverages, 
and make succulent plants. 8. Insert a letter in domestic animals, 
and make vehicles. 9. Insert a letter in to crowd, and make a rich 

The inserted letters will spell the name of a city of the United 
States. "may and 79." 

6. Representing sounds. 7. A serpent. 8. A tropical tree, the 
fruit of which is a substitute for bread. 9. Days exempt from work. 
10. Associates. 

The zigzags from 1 to 10 will spell the patron saint of childhood, 
whose festival occurs on December sixth; from 11 to 20, a name 
sometimes given to the four weeks before Christmas. F. s. F. 


The letters in each of the following sentences may be transposed 
so as to form a single word. 

1. Men eat girls. 2. Neat boy. 3. Neat girl. 4. Satin on a 
tin star tub. 5, Made in pint pots. 6. I love. 7. Fat bakers. 8. Seal 
soup. 9. Cart horse. l. s. p. 





11 . 


. 12 . 

3 ■ 

. . 13 . 

- 4 

... 14 

5 ■ 

. . 15 • 

. 6 

. 16 . . 

5- In 

9 . . . 19 . 
. 10 . .20 

Cross- Words : 1. A beetle. 2. Driven aground. 3. A sweet- 
meat made of fruit. 4. Having the form of fingers. 5. Cowardly. 

I. 1. In pearly. 2. A vine. 3. A coin. 4. An insect 
pearly. II. 1. In pearly. 2. A small dwelling-house. 3. 
tic. 4. A light blow. 5. In pearly. 

The two central words, when read in connection, will name an 
aromatic herb. W. H. 


r. Syncopate a low, heavy sound, and leave a Russian coin. 2, Syn- 
copate the act of rising out of any enveloping substance, and leave 
an American philosopher. 3. Syncopate a prayer, and leave a bright 
constellation. 4. Syncopate a platform, and leave a philosopher. 
5. Syncopate a blaze, and leave renown. 6. Syncopate to defraud, 
and leave idle talk. 7. Syncopate to assemble, and leave an absent- 
minded person. 8. Syncopate a track, and leave an imprecation. 
9. Syncopate to manage, and leave savage. 

The syncopated letters spell the name of a plant regarded with 
superstition by the Druids. dycie. 





The answer to this enigma consists of ninety-seven letters, and is 
an original stanza of four lines ; the lines end respectively on figures 
twenty-three, forty-seven, seventy-one, and ninety-seven. In the last 
line (in figures from seventy-two to eighty-eight inclusive) will be 
found a new proverb of three words. All of the objects described 
are pictured in the accompanying illustration. 

My i 5-18-7 is a short poem; transposed, a fleet wild animal im- 
mortalized by Wordsworth. My 6-3-12-20 ushered in the first 
Christmas; transposed, sailors. My 26-14-24-2 is a water-bird; 
transposed, parts of a sheaf of grain. My 58-1-8-10-39 are a help 
for birds to rise ; transposed, a help for children to rise. My 40—33— 
31-4-9-6 is a curious flower; transposed, a company of singers. 
My 6-32-44-16-19 is a low tree; transposed, a household utensil. 
My 38-39-49-27-2 is a tree; transposed, may be found in every win- 
dow. My 6-36-48-37-43-22 is part of a flower; transposed, catkins. 
My 1 7-53-1 1-51-46 is an acid fruit ; transposed, a sweet fruit. My 73— 
50-74-62-57-54-66 is an outdoor game; transposed, a fruit. My 52- 
5-79-30—71—94 is a flower; transposed, a sacred mountain. My 76— 
85-65 is a healing substance ; transposed, a young animal. My 
61 -31-68-77-17 is a useful article in traveling; transposed, 
fastenings. My 39-25-80-28 may be seen at the sea-side; trans- 
posed, may be seen in winter. My 02-13-56—47 is an emblem of 
eternity; transposed, an undesirable expression. My 90-21-87-81 
is a trailing plant; transposed, part cf a leaf. My 55-67-29-34-64 
is an animal ; transposed, an engraver's tool. My 94—45-85-83-6 are 
plates of baked clay ; transposed, steps. My 59-15-30-72 is a wild 
animal; transposed, a domestic bird. My 17-84-38-41 is part of a 
plant; transposed, an insect. My 31-15-60-64 is a piece of money; 
transposed, a shoot of a plant. My 20-63-42-17-89 is a weapon; 
transposed, what a bird is. My 35-87-86-49-91 is a game bird ; 
transposed, certain trees. My 78-44-95-2-88-97 is a kind of trim- 
ming; transposed, part of the hand. My 17-38-96-49 is an illumi- 
nator ; transposed, a tree. My 17-40-38-82 is found at the baker's; 
transposed, a young animal. My 70, 93, 23, 6g, 75 are letters which 
may be found in the picture. j. p. b. 


Oh, second, please do bring ray Jirst 

From where I left it on the table; 
We 'II third and see my ivhole, for here 
In Spain is where it *s fashionable. 


My primals name a festal time, and my finals something which 
abounds at that time. 

Cross-words: i. A projection on a wheel. 2. A collector. 3. A 
famous warrior in Tasso's "' Jerusalem Delivered." 4. Modulated. 
5. Luxurious. 6. A semaphore. 7. An error. 8. A feminine name. 
9. A title of deference. 

When these have been rightly guessed, and placed one below the 
other, the central letters may be transposed so as to form two words. 




Vol. XVI 

JANUARY, 1889. 

A little maid whom I love well 
Left in her egg-cup an empty shell - 
I took the spoon and pierced it through. 
She thought it a "funny thing to do!'' 
But I said, " It is best to be discreet ; 
Remember the tale of the Pigmy Fleet ! 
I shall obey the King's Decree." 

Up she clambered to my knee — 
"Tell me the story! when — how — why?" 
I told this legend in reply: 

- s ^ 3r ^p^BS} 


'_ v\,\« ■ 


Copyright, 1888, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 


Meddlesome pygmies long ago 
Swarmed in a little kingdom so 
That night or day there was no rest 
From willful prank and heedless jest. 
They pinched the babies till they cried 

H_^ ' L# 

<£fM m 

aw \r 





The hives they robbed, the bees defied; 
They stole the clothes hung out on lines, 
And changed about the merchants' signs. 



They turned the guide-boards all astray 
To make poor travelers lose their way ; 


Ten times a day they stopped the clocks, "^j^ 
And stole the door-keys from the locks. 
To tell you half the tricks they played .^ ^ 

I fear would tire my little maid. 


Cite us © ci© c. 


At length their impudent assurance 
Exceeded even saints' endurance. 
Rich and poor o'erwhelmed the King 
With bulky rolls, petitioning 
For quick relief — no matter how! 
Mobs were formed and raised a row 
Which might have led to revolutions 
Threatening ancient institutions ! 

1 66 

^ ; z s. 

ain r 

The monarch, seeing they were serious, ||M 1 \<^WjL .. { ^ 

Sent decrees in terms imperious, |m T ~^^^P'-' ! ^''fc^ ' 

By chosen heralds riding fast ' 1~'0; 

Who read them thus, to the trumpet's blast: 


■ Oyez ! — Oyez ! Now draw ye near, 
The sovereign's gracious words to hear ! 

Hgi all Conditions, ranXs and apes 
jS|iving far or dwelling near 
SitKt'n the 1 

lace straight appesi^=.- J ^ 
sJnnoind all Y our choicest stor-e- 

Jy|f jj^odern JjJ^esearch J^rjcient |JI re,~ 
HJJKarevep each considers best 
"iHc^d the realm of m 

7£ m X West « - 
||§uc?eed! — you win our daughter's hand; 

iSl^Sf V ou are kam'shed ftomthe land! 
QjeTRb rash hand this j§J|i-i't deface; 
|§Josl it in ever); ^Market-place. 
©lone for the sake of the public jgUfeal 
iv<?r\ under* our |g£and and 

The trumpet sounds — " Long live the King ! ' 

To saddle springs the herald fleet, 
The pebbles fly from the horse's feet; 
Before "Jack Robinson" you could say, 
Horse and rider are far away ! 

From cavern and college, in gloomy rows 
Oi rusty black, like starving ci'ows, 
The wisemeu came, with sleepy eyes, 
Lugging books of ponderous size ; 
Crowding the roads for miles along 
With such a busy, hurrying throng, 
That, if balloons had then existed, 
A man, in one, would have insisted 
That these were ants, on a moving-day, 
Trudging along on their toilsome way. 


Throughout the realm there was no quiet ; 
Dispute and argument ran riot ; 
They carried their squabbling and their malice 
Even into the royal palace ! 

But when one dotard with the gout, 
Though very lame, walked quickly out 
(His speed was great to the palace yard 
By the zealous help of a royal guard), 
And when, despite his snowy hair, 
He was banished, then and there — 
Strange to say, they ceased their din ; 
You might have heard a falling pin ! 




The King arose in the silent hall 
And thus addressed the wisemen all : 

" Our wisemen, ye are summoned here 
To free our land from constant fear 
Of pygmies and their thoughtless pranks. 

"We offer riches, royal thanks, 
Our daughter's hand, to that wise one 
Whose skill suggests what must be done 
To banish pygmies and their play 
Over the hills and far away ! " 

The King no sooner finished speaking, 
Thau, all around, derisive squeaking 
Showed the pygmies would kindly try 
To keep the council from being dry. 

Ob, then arose a deafening shout — 
Your majesty, I can drive them out! 

Pounding his scepter on the table, 
The Monarch quelled the awful babel, 
Bawling out at the top of his lungs, 

" Silence ! Order ! Hold your tongues ! 

'Drive them out?'— a task for boys! 
Pygmies run from any noise; 
But when the pests are driven away, 
The problem is— to make them stay!" 

(The pygmies here renewed their jeers 
And gave three faint, sarcastic cheers.) 

According to age the sages spoke 
In senile wheeze or youthful croak, 
Advising horseshoes, tolling bells, 
Ancient charms, old witches' spells, 
Hazel rods and boiling water, 
Or, " seventh son of seventh daughter," 
Would surely keep the pygmies quiet 
If His Majesty would but try it. 

Pygmies clinging to roof and walls 
Received these plans with sneering squalls; 
Laughed at horseshoes, chuckled at bells, 
Mocked the charms and mimicked the spells; 
Crying, " Louder ! " — " Slower ! "— " Faster ! " 
Pelting them all with bits of plaster! 

At last the youngest sage had spoken. 

Silence reigned for a time unbroken, 

Save that a pygmy called aloud : 
" Who ever saw such a stupid crowd ! " 
" Ah," said another, " they '11 feel sick ; 

They '11 be banished pretty quick ! " 

In richest robes with rubies blazing 
The Princess sat. The sages, gazing 
(Each one sure that he would win her). 
Forgot that it was time for dinner. 

Not so the King. "These plans are old- 
Our royal dinner >s getting cold; 
Unless some new device we see, 
Quick as a wink you '11 banished be." 

The pygmies cried with cruel joy: 
"You '11 be quite right, my royal boy!" 

Despairing silence, like a pall, 
Settled ou the wisemen all. 

The Princess then, with blushing cheek, 
Bashfully dared a word to speak, 
Saying softly that she thought her 
Nurse would favor " running water ; 
For pygmies, fays, and elves, it seems, 
Can not cross the running streams. 
Perhaps a ditch, if deep and wide, 

Would guard the land on every side." 


Here the pygmies showed dismay, 
Many fainting quite away ! 

Sages shook their heads in doubt ; 
The King, delighted, shouted out: 
■ Your sainted mother always said 
That nurse of yours had a clever head! ill ,///>'/,/ f 
She 's wiser, far, than any man — ''/Jwh&v^- L 

Council 's over ! We '11 try her plan ! " 

He banished the sages, burned their books; 
Lighted the palace, summoned cooks, 
Gave a banquet to his daughter, 
A Duchess made the nurse who taught her. 


The ditch was dug, both deep and wide, 

Around the land on every side. 

In which a current flowing clear ',,,« 

Came from a rapid river near. 

Then boards were laid across the ditch, 

Making bridges over which 

Pygmies could cross when driven away ; 

These removed — why, there they 'd stay 

Then old and young, with yell and shout, 

Beating pans, soon drove them out. 

Over the bridges the pygmies ran 

Squealing, as pigs and pygmies can ; 

Over they went like frightened mice — 

Up went the bridges in a trice! 

In vain the pygmies raged and cried, 

They could not cross the flowing tide! 

Vol. XVI.— 12. 

Within the living water's charm 
The realm remained secure from harm. 
Babies led unruffled lives; 
Bees enriched unrifled hives ; 
Merchants, now, no sign could see 
Nailed where another ought to be ; 
Clocks sedately uttered ticks 

i 7 8 

— A charming Prince to the palace came, 
Followed by nobles of high degree, 
In great procession, grand to see. 
A wedding took place, with joy and laugh- 
ter, — 
,\ They happily lived forever after. 


In restful peace for many years 

The people all forgot their fears. 

Pygmies' pranks were told as jokes J^Mp^'*' 'C>f") 

By patriarchs to younger folks. ^^^^^M^C^T^ O. 

mSJSMi o. 

But, alas ! — one day in the finest weather 
The babies' babies howled together ! 
For pygmies re-appeared that night 
And played old tricks with keen delight. 

The aged King now grown quite gray, 
No princess needs to show the wav. 


He seeks Her Grace (the former nurse) 
And asks the cause of this reverse. 

The wrinkled Duchess wagged her head; 
" The reason is simple enough," she said. 
"Go search along the ditch's side; 

You '11 see how pygmies cross the tide ! " 

Pages run with twinkling legs 
And find the empty shells of eggs, 
Each equipped like a dainty boat, — 
A fairy racing shell afloat! 

/.', . . ,x\. ... r/ , 


These were brought to the Duchess wise, 
Who frowned as she said with blinking eyes: 
"There 's something strange about egg-shells 
Which makes them proof against all spells. 
I feared some day the charm might fail, 
If pygmies learned in those to sail. 

How lucky it is you came to me! 
Your Majesty now must thus decree, 
By heralds sent to every door, 
'Let all egg-shells for evermore 
Be either crushed or pierced quite through, 
That shells for boats may never do!'" 

j [Jjf Decree was signed that very day, 
The pygmies driven again away, 
And never since did egg-shell float, 
Rigged as a pygmy's tiny boat. 



' There ! You know why your father said 
You must hreak the shell. Now go to bed." 
So she did 
As she was hid, 
And dreams of pygmies filled her head. 


,8 3 


By Mary Hartwell Catherwood. 

Chapter III. 


WITHOUT consciously choosing either end of the 
road, Alvine ran on toward Ste. Anne. The rain 
slackened, but it was so dark she once came down 
the slope against a fence, and once fell over a 
wayside trough, the laundry-trough of some peace- 
fully sleeping family. Her cautious voice sought 
Bruno with repeated calls. The road suggested 
rather than outlined its damp gray track to her 
strained sight, and when Alvine had blundered 
along and in zigzag lines across it until she panted, 
it seemed best to get under shelter again and wait 
until morning to find Bruno. 

The stone ruin was left behind. And she pre- 
ferred even waking some family to going back 

The masses of unseen things around her might 
be houses or barns or foliage. Darkness makes 
prisoners of us without any walls. It stands us 
literally on our heads in the void, inverting our 

Alvine thought she was climbing a steeper grade 
of the way when she ran against one of those slat 
fences linked together by withes, so common on 
the Beaupre road. But as a fence was a clew she 
needed, she traced it along, hand over hand, until 
it yielded and gaped where there was evidently a 
gate. To insure herself against wandering out 
of the gate again, she closed it behind her. The 
stir of wind and pit-pat of ceasing rain did not 
cover the oozy sound of Alvine's foot in the sod. 
A snarling growl began very close to her, she 
could not tell in what direction. Afraid of being 
seized by a strange dog, she called out appeasing 
words and ran into something which crashed. But 
a strong mouth nipped her, and her cries were 
piteous for two or three minutes until a disturbed 
trampling answered; light broke through the 
windows of a house in front of her and the door 

Crowding their heads outside the door, with a 
candle between them, appeared a fat woman and 
lean, black-bearded man. Though so terrified, 
Alvine noticed it was the black-bearded man she 
had seen in the dog-wagon. 

"Oh, monsieur," she cried, " it must be your dog 
that is biting me ! " 

" Gervas, let go thy hold ! " shouted the man; 
and Alvine felt a welcome relaxing of the grip in 
which she was held. 

The woman also made exclamation, and cried : 

"Whose lost child are you ? " 

" Go back to thy bed, Gervas," admonished the 
man, shaking his head and candle at the dog. 
" You see no difference between hog flesh and hu- 
man, heh ? " 

Gervas, the mistaken Newfoundland, having 
acted with the best intentions, answered by a low 
growl. He felt injustice. Still, he was willing to 
make amends on his part, and wagged his tail at 
Alvine since she found favor with his family; then 
retreating under the high gallery which ran along 
the front of the house, and on which Alvine had 
upset one of a row of geranium-pots, he curled 
down again in the comfortable nest he had been 
abused for leaving. 

" You see there the steps," said the man, show- 
ing Alvine an ascending flight at the end of the 
gallery. So she entered the house, and when the 
partly clothed pair had set right their geranium-pot, 
they also came in and closed the door. 

She was a limp, muddy girl, and her braids hung 
raveled down her back, quite unlike the tidy pil- 
grim who had lunched by the roadside ; but the 
man now recalled her. 

' ' Why did you stay out in the storm, made- 
moiselle ? " he inquired severely. "I could have 
brought you to the Mother Ursule as I came by." 

" I ran into that old ruined house, monsieur, 
when it began to rain. I do not know the Beaupre 
road — I was born on the Chaudiere." 

" And where did he bite thee ? " queried Mother 
Ursule, directly, turning her ghastly visitor toward 
the candle on the table. 

" He bit my ankle, madame." 

In a chair with straight back and legs, which was 
properly weighted to the floor by bars of wood form- 
ing its base, and in fact looked like a chair of another 
century, Alvine was placed while Mother Ursule 
stripped down the stocking to look at her ankle. 

Gervas had seized half of it in his mouth, but as 
he held it less fiercely than he might have done, it 
was bleeding only in the sockets his teeth had left. 



Mother Ursule flung up her hands. With out- 
cry and waddle — for, like all middle-aged French 
women of her class, she put on fat with years and 
was as shapeless a mass as one of her feather-beds — 
she brought soothing grease and cotton rags, and 
after washing bound it carefully up. 

Her husband retreated into a kind of sleeping- 
closet, where he sat on the side of his bed, his 
elbows resting on his knees. 

" Mademoiselle, I beg of you to pardon Gervas," 
he said. 

" Monsieur, the dog is not to blame ; it is my- 

" Gervas is the best-mannered lad between here 
and the Saguenay. He must have been dreaming 
of pigs, mademoiselle — Mother Blanchet's pigs. 
They come down-hill and drop into our garden, 
and I never have to turn my head from the anvil 
when I see them. Gervas attends to that branch 
of the business. He is a good son." 

'■ Sore pilgrimage will you make on this foot, 
my child," grunted Mother Ursule, who knew 
most wayfarers along that road to be pilgrims, 
" unless you stay with us and heal your hurt where 
you got it. Monsieur Pelletier may make his ex- 
cuses for that hairy bebe, that dirt-spreading 
Gervas of his, but for myself, I will take an oven- 
stick and pound the beast in the morning. Not 
to know the difference of smell between pigs and 
pilgrims ! " 

" But so well he draws a wagon," Alvine put to 
the credit of Gervas. 

" Is it not so?" exclaimed Pelletier. " I could 
load his wagon with all the hay I raise, and Ger- 
vas would trot off with it and never know it. But 
Mother Ursule has no love for that child. She 
sat down on his wagon once, and Gervas laid him- 
self flat upon the ground." 

" He hath reason to flatten himself on the ground 
before me," said Mother Ursule. " Great paws 
of him that mark my floors ! How long have you 
been on your way, my child ? And have they 
much wool in the Chaudiere valley now ? " 

" I came not directly from the Chaudiere valley, 
madame. It is from Quebec. My sister and I are 
in service there, for our father has made his choice." 

" Ah, ah, ah," said Pelletier, with perfect com- 

"Ah, ah, ah," said Mother Ursule, also with 
perfect comprehension. 

Chapter IV. 


Alvine rested with her hands in her lap, while 
Mother Ursule finished the bandaging. Her eyes, 

* " Pshaw ! 

grown recently used to more stately interiors, yet 
enjoyed tracing the white pine room from clean 
rafters to broad floor-boards. The walls were 
pine also, with no object to break their monotony 
of dove-tailed planks except some mottoes done in 
bad French and worsted. 

" Ama 
Bonne Maman." 
" Respecte 



A stairway went up at one side of this room, and 
in the middle of the floor stood an oilcloth-covered 
table on which the light had been placed. An 
iron stove, as large as a furnace, was built into the 
wall between this room and another. 

" My mistress and her family have gone to New 
Brunswick for the summer," explained Alvine, 
coming back with her eyes to the good-humored 
face of Mother Ursule ; " and she gave me leave 
to make the good pilgrimage while our house is 
partly closed. But my brother is first to be found. 
Have you seen a tall boy, sixteen years old, who 
looks like a lumberman, pass on this road ? " 

" What is your name, mademoiselle ? " inquired 

"Alvine Charland, lam called. My brother's 
name is Bruno-Morel Charland. Monsieur and 
madame, he is the finest young man you ever saw. 
He went directly away to a lumber camp. It was 
in the autumn. And then we had no word from 
him all winter, except that he was to come back 
when the drive was over. I saw him this very 
night, madame." Alvine fixed her excited eyes 
on the matron. " He stood under a tree in that 
old house, and then was gone entirely. Monsieur, 
my brother was caught in a break-up of logs in the 
Ottawa river." 

"Si — so ! " ejaculated Pelletier. 

" Yes, monsieur; it is six weeks ago." 

" He has not been there ever since ? " inquired 
Mother Ursule, with gentle caution. 

" No, no, no, no, no, madame ! " 

Alvine spread her hands abroad with a sweep- 
ing double gesture, as a French girl does when 
she has some surprising story to tell. 

" He was caught in a break-up at the Chaudiere 
falls, and he was under the water no one knows 
how long. They could not find him. But, mon- 
sieur and madame, my brother was pulled out of 
the river by raftsmen." 

" Cha — a ! "* exclaimed Pelletier, using a word 
which he believed to be expressive English. 

" Yes, certainly. And they tended him and 
brought him down the Ottawa. He was hurt 
about his head by the logs, madame, and is not 
like he was, monsieur. For Bruno is strong and 




feels no sickness. But inside, madame," — Alvine 
struck her fingers on her forehead, — ''it made a 
confusion that drives him like a butterfly before the 
wind. The raftsmen said he was able to help them 
with the raft down the Ottawa, but he laughed, he 

" Who brought you the news ? " inquired Mother 
Ursule, standing up and resting her knuckles on 
her sides. 

" It was a man who hauled in the lumber camp 
with Bruno-Morel. The 1st of June, and of July 


danced, he sang, he knew not where he was going. 
After he left the raft he was heard of in the woods 
of Maine, above Lake Megantic, and he was heard 
of near Ste. Anne de Beaupre." 

" Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," murmured 
Pelletier with sympathy. 

also, brought no Bruno. Whenever we got leave, 
I took my sister Marcelline to watch the steam- 
boats unload at Quebec docks. We saw a man 
there many times. He sat and saw all the boats. 
He heard us talk, and asked us if we were the 
sisters of Bruno-Morel. I told him we waited for 



our brother, and asked him if he had seen Bruno 
come ashore. 

" Monsieur," said Alvine with a gesture of aston- 
ishment, " he was at the Chaudiere falls when it 
happened, and he had seen the raftsmen after 
Bruno left them. Yes, madame ; and he had read 
in the English papers, for he speaks English bet- 
ter than French, and my brother had been printed 
about. The man read to us one paper, saying a 
boy had been seen singing and playing on the 
Beaupre road who resembled the boy that had his 
head hurt at the Chaudiere falls. He read, also, 
that such a boy was in an engineer's camp above 
Lake Megantic ; for the man carried the papers in 
his pocket, and had carried them two weeks. He 
loved my brother. So Marcelline and I got news 
of Bruno-Morel." 

" What will you do with the boy when you find 
him ? " inquired Pelletier. " If his brains be hurt 
he will scarce turn himself to work ; or he might 
serve awhile at my forge holding horse-shoes." 

" And the hammer, also," hinted Mother Ursule, 
" while my husband smokes at the door." 

" Our cure will take him to an asylum to be 
helped," replied Alvine. " I told our cure about 

" Yes, yes, yes, that will be a good thing," as- 
sented Pelletier. 

" Shall I now make you some tea before you go 
to bed ? " suggested Mother Ursule. 

" No, no, no, madame. I thank you ; no, no." 
Their guest forbade such extreme hospitality with 
a beseeching gesture. " I had my supper by the 
way, as monsieur saw." 

" You will then have cream ? " urged the house- 
mother, tantalizing a youthful appetite by that 
dainty dearest to a French stomach. 

" Oh ! — la creme," murmured Alvine. " Ma- 
dame is too kind. La creme, madame — it is too 
much trouble ! " 

" See you, now," said Mother Ursule. She 
straightway entered a side room, and the tinkle 
of spring water could be heard while the door re- 
mained open, — spring water, which among the 
hills is an eternal rain condensed to one channel — 
rain shot through with sunshine, and radiating 
perpetual promises against drought. 

Back with Mother Ursule into the lighted room 
came an odor unpleasant to most nostrils not 
French-Canadian. She carried in her hand a pint 
bowl wreathed around with flower designs and 
filled with a thick yellow mass which brought the 
brightness of anticipation into Alvine's face when 
it was set before her. The whole inclosed atmos- 
phere freighted itself with the sourness of that 
cream. It had reached a stage of acidity which 
cream could hardly reach unassisted by French 

* Boardin 

skill ; but one more thing was needed to make it 
the rich morsel Alvine desired, and Mother Ursule 
set down that thing from a cupboard in the wall : 
a saucer of black molasses, thick, and tasting 

Into this Alvine dipped a pewter teaspoon, trans- 
ferring as much molasses as she thought proper 
to the bowl of cream. Then she stirred the black 
and yellow mixture with exact care, and began to 
cat like an epicure. 

"Is it good ?" queried Mother Ursule, assum- 
ing indifference, and asking the question as if duty 
compelled her to it. 

" Oh, madame ! this is the best cream I have had 
since I left the Chaudiere ! " 

'■Ah — ah!" responded the housewife in a 
gratified note. " The maisons de pension * send 
here from Ste. Anne's for my cream. They could 
use many times the quantity. It takes much 
cream to fill all the people who come and go 
there. I know how it should be prepared. Mother 
Blanchet up the mountain, — they buy her cream, 
also, when they can get no more of me ; but I as- 
sure you, my child, it is not fit to eat ; it hath no 
more taste to it than a sickening cup of milk fresh ! 
Mother Blanchet would buy, with both her pigs, 
my skill with cream." 

" And thou hast also a sister? " Pelletier put in 
between Alvine and the treatment of cream. 

" Yes, monsieur. I have ten sisters, monsieur." 

"All in Quebec?" 

" No, no, no, monsieur. Did I not tell it is 
Marcelline only who remains near me ? Though 
she is nurse in a family of tradespeople in the 
lower town, and my family live on the heights, 
we take our children and meet on Dufferin Ter- 
race when the weather is fine. Marcelline is hardly 
twelve years old. My little sister can get abetter 
place when she has more age." 

" Could she not come with you on this pilgrim- 
age ? " inquired Mother Ursule. 

"Madame, she has gone to Lake Megantic with 
her family, because they have relatives there. 
That was a wonderful thing for the lumberman to 
tell us Bruno had been seen in the Maine woods 
above Lake Megantic, when Marcelline was going 
directly there and could inquire after him ! But, 
madame, since 1 have seen him to-night in the 
Beaupre road, Marcelline need not search for him 

The girl laid down her spoon before the cream 
was finished. 

" Madame, how wet he will be ! The rain ran 
down his cheeks ! " 

" That all right, that all right ! " exclaimed Pel- 
letier in English. And, dropping into his own 
language, he explained, "You can not hurt these 





strong, huge boys. They will sleep in wet grass 
and wake laughing." 

When Alvine had finished her cream her hostess 
took the candle and signed toward the pine stair- 
way. She was very tired and anxious to lay her 
throbbing ankle in horizontal rest. So, gladly 
putting her hand on the balustrade and saying, 
" Good-night, monsieur," in response to the polite 
leave-taking of her host, she limped upstairs, after 
the toiling figure of Mother Ursule, to a bare 
chamber where a feather-bed awaited guests. 

Chapter V. 


Lake Megantic, winding among hills and for- 
ests, half turning river, and then repenting itself 
and spreading out again into lake, has a rudely 
built little town called Agnes on one of its bays. 
Agnes had sprung with toadstool speed beside a 
new railroad, which was penetrating beyond into 
the Maine woods. This railroad promised so to 
unite American and British interests that its reach- 
ing the boundary-line was made an occasion of 
on that hot July day which followed the storm on 
the Beaupre road. 

Excursion rates were given from all points along 
the route, to the boundary-line, and picnics lured 
the inhabitants of one village to spend their day in 
another. Men in public life, and others whose 
names were celebrated, had been asked to go to 
the boundary-line and make brief speeches on the 

The train poured out nearly all its load at Agnes ; 
for there, at the Lake Megantic dock, waited a 
wheezy steamer ready to overfreight itself with as 
many souls as would trust themselves to it, and 
sail-boats and row-boats beside. So many more 
people desired to go out on the blue water than 
desired to look at an unfinished iron track that it 
seemed the train must carry its speech-makers and 
officials to spout only to each other at the bound- 
ary-line. But Agnes' villagers themselves thronged 
into it, loading it well for its concluding run of 
fifteen miles. 

Marcelline Charland had been waiting for this 
train. Her mistress let her buy an excursion ticket 
to the boundary-line, and she was going there to 
inquire after her brother. 

Marcelline had very dim ideas of a boundary- 
line. She expected to find a populous encamp- 
ment of laborers, and perhaps the engineer of the 
road holding Bruno in his safe grasp until she 
could come and claim him. Marcelline's print 
gown was fitted to her by a belt and yoke. She 
had an old-fashioned air, as if she were a little girl 

who had been boxed away twenty-five years and 
lately brought out again, untarnished but some- 
what juiceless. 

Before the train came, Marcelline had been down 
under a bank clipping her foot in clear brown water, 
the water of the Chaudiere flowing over rocks. 
This, her native river, had its source in Lake Me- 
gantic ; and, when Marcelline first learned the fact, 
she every day took the children she tended to look 
at her river's head. Delicious was the water to 
her naked foot as she paddled, thinking where 
those very drops were going. Her mind pursued 
them no farther than the limits of her old home. 
This discovery of the Chaudiere's source was com- 
fort to her while quite separated from Alvine. 

There were many trout in the water ; she would 
tell Alvine this. It was as lovely here as in its 
stoniest turns along the valley ; and she would 
have this to tell Alvine. She was paid for coming 
to Lake Megantic, even if nothing could be heard 
about Bruno. 

The train whistled while Marcelline probed 
limpid depth beside a rock. She huddled her 
stocking and shoe on a damp foot, and ran to find 
a seat in the second-class car. Her small face 
glowed with heat and exertion. She sat on the 
sunny side, two larger people squeezing her against 
the window. Several miles of the route slid past 
her before she took note of anything but her own 
discomfort. The second-class car had cushionless, 
wooden seats, and was nearly filled with noisy 
young men. 

Marcelline looked through open doors and across 
the throbbing platform at those great people in the 
first-class car. Crimson upholstering softened to 
them the jolts of the train, and they sat in groups 
delightfully talking. The contractor of the new 
railroad, and all who were to make speeches, were 
in that car. One group, at least, was delightfully 
talking; Marcelline wished she could hear them ; 
a father with flying light hair which smeared the 
top of his face or stood out from his temples, and 
his daughter, a girl about Alvine's age. She was 
trimly dressed, and her auburn curls were tucked 
up under a helmet-shaped lawn-tennis hat of white 
linen. The pair resembled each other, for her 
father's face was smooth, his features straight and 
delicate. Marcelline had often seen these two in 
Quebec. She knew they were the French poet 
Lavoie and his eldest child. She had watched 
them with serious attention, as an unthinking 
robin, waked in the night, may sometimes gaze 
at distant stars. Once her master remarked when 
she heard him, that the poet Lavoie had married 
into one of the oldest and richest families in 
Canada, and fortunate it was for him, for a man 
would starve to death on poetry. Monsieur Lavoie 



and his daughter were devoted chums. She was 
his companion wherever he went, excepting at 
state dinners. 

This girl so beloved seemed full of dimples and 
laughter, yet she had a droop of the head which 
gave her a bashful air. Marcelline watched her 
with unnamed sensations. She sat with her back 
to the engine, and all the sweet play of her face 
was pored over by Marcelline, who stretched for- 
ward impatiently if smoke poured clown the roof of 
the car and veiled it. 

" So many pine-trees, papa ! " the girl exclaimed. 
" What a great old forest ! " 

" Yes. I love a great old forest, Aurele." 

" I also, papa." 

" What heat those pine-trees could send forth if 
they once caught fire ! " 

" Ah, what fun to live in one of those cabins 
the whole summer, papa. Why are there so many 
cabins so large, and all standing empty ? " 

" They are the contractor's deserted shells, 
Aurele. He built them along his line as he needed 
them, with store-rooms and kitchens ; but, of 
course, he could not carry a single house with 
him. He must abandon it and build another far- 
ther on. See how much wood is cut and piled by 
the track ready for shipping." 

" Papa, if the woods were mine, I should let 
people cut only enough to keep them warm, and 
to build ships with. Those are ships' knees, those 
crooked pieces ; are they not ? Perhaps some of 
those very timbers will float us far away together." 

" Not with smoke for sails, I hope, my Aurele," 
the poet answered, remarking with half-attentive 
eye a smoldering stump. 

The woods grew denser, and oaks, like hoary 
old men, stood bearded with moss. In the midst 
of this wilderness their train halted. It had reached 
the barrier set up at the end of its iron track. 
Beyond, the smooth road-bed as far as eye could 
trace it awaited its timber and rails. 

The locomotive stood holding its breath with a 
low hiss. Everybody poured out, some people 
strolling into the woods, where they could be seen 
breaking themselves spoil of various kinds, and 
others crowding around the speech- makers. 

Near the new track stood an iron post which had 
been set by British and United States commis- 
sioners more than forty years before. On one side 
it bore the words, " Her Britannic Majesty," and 
on the other, " United States of America." This 
was the boundary-line. 

Marcelline could see no army of laborers in their 
temporary village. A man on horseback, leading 
another horse by the bridle, was waiting for the 
contractor, who had five miles farther to ride to his 

The brass band, that had come upon a flat car 
decorated with evergreens, now stood up in the 
woods and made them ring with, " God Save the 
Queen" and "Hail, Columbia." An American 
consul, a member of the Canadian parliament, and 
the French poet, in turn, spoke of the development 
of this continent, each rejoicing from his own 
standpoint, for men love to feel the progress of the 
race flowing through their own veins. Cheers 
shook the air ; some Americans who were present 
got on their side of the line and shouted. Pres- 
ently the locomotive bell began to ring, and strag- 
glers hastened back from the woods to take their 
places in the returning train. 

Marcelline went timidly to the contractor, who 
mounted his horse and waited to lift his hat in 
adieu to a company he had brought so far into the 

" Monsieur," she whispered at his stirrup. 

"What is it, my lass?" incmired the English 

" If you please, monsieur, is my brother, Bruno- 
Morel Charland, in your camp ? He came from 
the Chaudiere valley, and he was hurt among the 
logs six weeks ago." 

"Speak English, speak English, my lass; and 
look sharp if you're going on that train. I don't 
talk French." 

" Monsieur," besought Marcelline, lifting her 
voice, as we all do when our language is not com- 
prehended, as if noise would arouse a sleeping in- 
terpreter in our listener's ears, "is my brother, 
Bruno-Morel Charland, in your camp? I made 
this journey to find him, monsieur." 

The man who had held the contractor's horse 
now spoke up. He talked rapidly in English to 
his employer, and in French to Marcelline. He 
told her there were five hundred men in the camp 
above, that he had been among them all summer, 
and no such person as she described was there. 

Marcelline paid her thanks for this certainty, 
and solemnly climbed the height of the platform 
to the second-class car. She felt that she and her 
vital interests were very trivial and not worth the 
attention of minds concerned with the large 
matters of the world. Her inexperienced heart 
resented the cruel and stupid resistance of circum- 
stances, as we all resent it before we learn the har- 
mony of life. 

Chapter VI. 


DURING ten miles of the backward run sponta- 
neous camp-fires appeared to spring in all directions 
through the woods. The sight amused Aurele. 




"But see, papa!" she exclaimed. ''One of 
those log houses is burning up. It makes a bea- 
con. Who lighted so many fires? " 

" Perhaps the sparks of our locomotive." The 
poet uneasily rose and went to the door. Aurele 
followed and hung on his arm, while her smiling 
sight moved from flame to flame. Other inmates 
were watching the spectacle. 

The train, lessening its speed, was soon obliged 
to creep cautiously between banks of rose-red em- 
bers or solid cords of roaring wood — the wood 
which had been cut and piled for commerce. The 
pine branches on the flat car ignited, driving the 
brass band into an inclosed carriage for shelter. 
Men with buckets dropped to ditches beside the 
track and dipped up water to throw on the train, 
creeping on the platforms again with scorched 
clothes and hands and faces blistered. 

One who has never been in a forest fire can 
scarcely imagine its intense heat, the acrid blind- 
ing smoke, the suddenness with which trees flash 
from root to crown, and grass blazes far from any 
spark, as if the earth itself were burning, the fur- 
nace glow of piled logs, the heated air from baked 

Incredible sights showed through that nightmare 
of fire. Moss-inclosed stumps spurted flame many 
times their own height. Young ferns, scarce un- 
rolled, sprang green and fresh from one side of a 
log, while the other side quivered in living coals. 

The train stopped. It could creep in retreat no 
farther, for its track was burned, the rails warped 
into fantastic curves. Blackened and blistered 
paint ran down the car sides. 

The doors and windows had all been closed to 
keep out smoke and sickening heat. Aurele's 
father held her to him and fanned her with his 
hat. Every mouth in the carriage gasped for 
breath. The floor was so hot it burned their feet. 
The window glass could not be touched. They 
could all see the wooden sides of the inclosure 

When the doomed train had hung a minute in 
the midst of this furnace, some one opened a door 
and shouted that it was on fire. Into the blister- 
ing smoke-darkened air, and out upon a forest 
floor spread with embers and quivering with heat, 
the people all rushed. Women fainted and were 
dragged up and carried by their fathers or broth- 
ers. The escape-valve of the locomotive was left 
open by its flying engineer, but it uttered its steam 
wail briefly, being relieved by explosion. 

When days had cooled the forest to blackness, a 
distorted boiler and some rows of iron wheels were 
found where the train came to a stop. 

Aurele, in her father's grasp, stepped down upon 

The train conductor and his men tried to gather 
all the people for a retreat to the lake. But it was 
impossible to shout explanations and commands 
as a ship's captain may do when he abandons 
ship. Merely inhaling the hot air wilted men 
downward on fainting knees. Terror drove every 
step taken in that vast fiery furnace. Carrying, 
driving, and dragging each other, the crowd ran 
toward the lake. Sometimes they could see it, 
sometimes they were lost in a world of smoke, the 
scorched sod betraying their feet into nests of coals, 
and one suddenly seized another's garments to 
crush starting flame. They had to avoid dropping 
flakes from the trees and rosy columns toppling 
just ready to fall. Often a clear space toward 
which they fought flashed up and barred their 
way, shaking out banners of fire. Yet, by groups 
they reached the lake, and dashed in, or let them- 
selves down gasping upon its pebbles. Even the 
grape-vines were turning to red-hot links and 
throwing off sparkles as if worked by a black- 
smith's hammer. Megantic, in places, slopes 
gradually to its depths, so children and others 
unable to swim could run into it from hissing 
brands which blackened as they struck the water. 

The town of Agnes was visible from this point, 
and though the villagers were fighting fire on their 
own account, — for the woods enveloped and nearly 
swept away their wooden buildings, — they saw the 
signal of their land-wrecked friends and relations 
who had taken to the water, and sent out all the 
boats they could muster. 

It could not be learned that anybody perished in 
the woods, though some were fatally burned while 
escaping. But when one party rearranged itself 
and felt able to count its members, the poet La- 
voie and his daughter were missed. 

Nobody missed Marcelline Charland. The chil- 
dren whom she tended and their mother, dazed by 
the common calamity and the sight of their tem- 
porary home in ashes, took refuge where they did 
not hear about the burned train. 

Marcelline, crushed among escaping people, fell 
into the ditch among quenched brands. But the 
fall wet her clothes and was a benefit to her. Too 
hardy to be seriously bruised by the flying herd 
who left her behind without knowing it, she got up 
and ran through smoke, pressing her dress-skirt 
over mouth and nose. It was a dreadful thing to 
be stifling in the midst of fire, while her father sat 
calmly at his open door in the valley, and even 
Alvine knew nothing about it. Like a breath of 
air from high hills was the thought that Bruno or 
Alvine would run into this danger after her. She 
was of great account to them. 

Had Marcelline been able to move through this 
wreck of nature without feeling all her pores start 


I 9 I 

sickening dew, or her shoes warp on scorched feet, 
or her smarting eyes close to save themselves, the 
roaring grand spectacle would have made up for 
all the commonplaces of her previous lifetime. For 
there was more for Marcelline to look at than the 
others had seen. Fire looks ashamed under high 
daylight. But this one daubed a lower sky of its 
own, a gray and stooping firmament up to which 
the woods glared. Solid ranks of pines magnified 
their height and stately straightness, as they stood 
glowing like coral, their tremulous breath ascend- 
ing ; stumps were fantastic gems, living color chas- 
ing through and through them. 

Marcelline fell down again as she ran, and got 
up from embers with her clothing afire. The 
wetting in the railroad ditch still helped her. She 
slapped the places with blistered hands. But it 
seemed no use. She was catching all over like the 
woods had done. 

Through the crackle of trees she heard screamed 
somewhere, "Oh, papa!" the screamer's breath 
gurgling in the heat. Marcelline, slapping her 
spurts of fire, could not look away for help. 
Whether Aurele Lavoie came from the right or 
the left or the front, it was impossible to know. 
But Aurele, from some direction, spread the skirt 
of her own flannel dress and wrapped it around 

Her father seized both girls, and they flew with 
him. He raced them over embers and through 
burning shrubs. It was the trial by fire. They 
must either die, or run death's gauntlet with deter- 
mined success. When they reached the lake 
border, Monsieur Lavoie flung Aurele first and then 
Marcelline over drift-logs blazing there, before 
leaping into the water himself. He sat down with 
them waist-deep on the pebbles and dipped the 
lake with both hands over them and himself until 
the senses of all three were revived. 

They were a grotesque group. Holes broke 
through their scorched garments. They panted 
audibly, and their faces, puffing and whitening in 
patches, glistened with a red shine under the trick- 
ling water. 

Smoke lay over the surface of the lake thick as 
fog. Nothing was to be seen in front of them 
except gray ripples lapping. Behind, the roaring 
furnace still painted its awful picture, and they did 
not look at it. Those refugees to whom the 
boats were sent waited on a strip of beach distant 
from this ; Aurele's return after Marcelline Char- 
land changed the direction of her father's retreat, 
because places which could be passed one minute 
became impassable after that minute's delay. 

Marcelline bore Monsieur Lavoie's drenchings 
with silent fortitude, but Aurele gasped, 

" Oh, papa, you will drown me ! " 

" Are you yet afire ? " 

" No, I am now quite put out. Oh, papa, par- 
don me ! " 

"The child you ran after is safe with us, is she 
not ? " 

" Papa ! " exclaimed Aurele. " You have been 
dipping the lake over her ; you should know she is 
safe — you, who brought her out of the fire. Your 
hair is frizzled up to your head. And mine" — 
Aurele parted her lips in dismay while she felt 
it — " oh, papa, my hair breaks off in handfuls ! " 

" Give me, then, a handful to kiss." 

" Bah ! — the singed smell is very disagreeable. 
We must be monsters. If we were to go down to 
the beach, mamma would not know us. She would 
say, ' Ernestine, conduct these people away. Raw 
beggars are bad enough, but cooked I can not 
endure them ! ' " 

"Not at all, my Aurele. A very precious mor- 
sel will you be to madame your mamma, when she 
learns how you cooked yourself. Helpless enough 
you were until you looked back and saw the child 
burning. Away then goes my moth into the fire 
again ! " 

" Papa," exclaimed Aurele, patting her father 
with a sudden embrace, " you talk straight in front 
of you, as if you sat at your writing-desk with 
Aurele at your knee. Why don't you look at me ? 
You can not be thinking a poem now." 

" I must crave your pardon for my present man- 
ners, beloved child," said the poet. 

" You will yet make a nose at my burns, you so 
slight them," complained Aurele, keeping her gaze 
on his face. 

Her father smiled while replying. 

" My eyelids seem melted together, and the 
coolness of the water has sealed them. How, then, 
can I give myself the pleasure of looking at my 
daughter's blisters ? " 

Aurele began to cry aloud, the tears smarting 
her cheeks. 

" Oh, papa, my papa, are they burned? — those 
lovely eyes that are so kind to me ! Did I drag 
you into the fire again to put your eyes out ! " 

" No, no — no, no," the poet repudiated. " You 
did nothing of that kind. My eyes are not out. 
They are in. They are, indeed, far in. They 
make their retirement, mademoiselle. They pre- 
sent their compliments, and would, if you please, 
see nothing but visions for a while." 

" Do they hurt, papa ? " 

" They do hurt, my Aurele. But I think their 
state is that probationary state of young kittens. 
Perhaps this laving in water will relieve the swell- 
ing. If you cry, my sight will struggle to tear 
itself out from its cloister. I can not endure unhap- 
piness of yours." 




Aurele quieted herself and washed the tears 
from her face. 

" We were obliged to go back, papa," she 

" Certainly. It was a mere duty. The 

You are to be called my 

"Do you hear that? 

"Yes, mademoiselle," answered Marcelline, her 
weazened, small face dripping its silent tears upon 
result the ripples. Aurele asked anxiously : 

" Do your burns, then, 
hurt so much ? " 

" I hurt most in my 
inside," explained the 
child, "for that monsieur 
and you should be burnt 
while you ran after me." 

" That is not thy af- 
fair, my child," declared 
Aurele. " Listen to me ; 
I must give thee in- 
struction. All the people 
in the world have their 
devoir to do. In this 
case it was plainly yours 
to let yourself be pulled 
out of the fire. You did 
so. That suffices. That 
is all ! " 

Aurele snapped finger 
and thumb, immediately 
nursing the blisters she 
thus irritated. " What is 

vour name 





is not our affair. Whatever the little girl's name 
is, she shall be called by us Aurele's child." 

Aurele leaned toward Marcelline and inquired 
brightly : 

" I am called Marcel- 
line Charland." 

" We are Monsieur 
Lavoieand his daughter," 
said Aurele. 

"Yes, I know," re- 
sponded Marcelline. "I 
have seen you many 

" Are you also, then, 
from Quebec ? " 

" I am nurse in a fam- 
ily there, mademoiselle." 

" But what a little 
creature she is for a 
nurse, papa! Our Ernest- 
ine is a giantess compared 
to her ; and she needs to 
be, or the boys would 
make an end of her." 

" Aurele," said the 

poet, with an air of habit- 

uallyconsulting hischild, 

"whatshallwe do now?" 

" We must reach help. We must go where 

there are remedies for burns. The hurting is so 

painful. This water surely cures our faintness, 

but I think it smarts the burns." 


] 93 

"I have less fortitude than either of you," said 
Monsieur Lavoie. " I must have relief as soon as 
possible. We can not wade the lake border. Is 
there no log in sight which we could sit on and 
propel ? " 

" None uncharred, papa. A half-burned log 
might go to pieces under us even if its heat was 
directly quenched." 

" Then, mademoiselle my daughter, what do 
you propose to do with us ? " 

" Poor papa; love you first, and beg those shut 
eyes to see Aurele in their visions. We can do 
nothing but call for help. We must make un- 
ceasing fog-horns of ourselves. We can not pass 
through these woods again though we sat here 
until they blackened to cold ebony." 

Aurele lifted up her voice and shouted across 
the water. Her father, in his turn, did the same, 
and Marcelline piped afterward. 

They kept it up until the grayness around them 
turned to blackness ; but a blackness pushed far 
off upon the lake by flames behind. They were 
able to leave the water and sit upon pebbles, for 
the fires nearest them were dying out. The even- 
ing was chill, and Monsieur Lavoie took Aurele 
on his arm and made Marcelline walk beside him 
back and forth on the strip of sand. They hob- 
bled. The voices of all three in long, anxious 
cadences, stretched over the lake : 

" Au secours ! au secours ! Vit', vit', vit', au 
secours, au secours, vit', vit' ! " 

( To be continued. ) 


By Emma A. Opper. 

My old Uncle Peter 's a famous relater 
Of marvelous stories; but my Uncle Peter 
Is a vigorous foe and a rigorous hater 
Of wile and of guile ; he despises a cheater ; 
He 's frank and sincere on a very large 

And this is his manner of telling a tale : 

" Oh, once in the chivalric days of old, 
In the wonderful long ago, 
There dwelt a Giant full bad and bold 
(But this is not fact, you know) — 
In whose darksome dungeon a maiden fair, 
Whom atrociously he had stole; 
She languished and wept (to be candid, 

Was no such a girl, nor hole). 

But, lo ! on a rapturous morn there rode 

A valorous Knight that way ; 

His snowy palfrey he brave bestrode 

(Don't credit this fiction, pray), 

And straight he sprang from the noble steed; 

His sword it gleamed in the sun, 

And the dragon that guarded the gate (a deed 

Which he could by no means have done) 

He felled at a blow, and with mighty force 

He battered the dungeon wall, 

And he seized the sorrowing maid ! (of course 

It never transpired at all) — 

And he slew the Giant, the dauntless youth, 

And the beauteous maid he wed 

(But you must n't imagine a grain of truth 

In a single word that I 've said).'' 

Oh, my old Uncle Peter 's a famous relater ! 

But I wish, goodness me ! that my old Uncle Peter 

Could be rather more of a prevaricator — 

His stories would be more absorbing, and neater ; 

I wish his integrity did n't prevail 

In so stern a degree — when he 's telling a tale. 

Vol. XVI.- 

By D. C. Robertson. 

gB 3 -u, *y ffi-£-iQLJJf« 

•f\ > ^-jry Tyry,^ ^Tvy-^srarTJa ) 

HERE is a well-known saying 
that truth is stranger than fic- 
tion. The correctness of this 
proverb can not well be gain- 
said. The most careless ob- 
servation of the wonders of 
nature as seen in this world 
of ours, the most hasty read- 
ing of the history of men, 
should be enough to place the 
matter beyond all doubt or tmestion. The world 
itself, its oceans and rivers, its mountains and for- 
ests, its plains and deserts, its wonderful human 
and animal life — these facts are more marvelous 
than anything the fancy of man ever has conceived 
or ever will conceive. But when we leave this 
earth, and, turning our eyes to the heavens, learn 
something, however trifling, of the glories which are 
there displayed, then are we most impressed with 
the feeling that, compared with truth, fiction, 
however strange, is poor, dull, and uninteresting. 
If the pages of natural history, in every line, tell of 
wonders far surpassing any set forth in the most 
dazzling romance, what shall be said of the annals 
of astronomy? 

Any one gazing at the sky on a clear, moonless 
night, will see what will seem to him a large number 
of little points of light, so tiny that many of them 
could be held in the palm of the hand ; each appar- 
ently fast fixed in its place, and all seemingly 
within a very little distance, say, within gun-shot, 
or a few minutes' walk. What he does see are 
huge, fiery globes, so vast that compared with them 
our great earth is but a plaything; rushing along 
at a speed to which that of the express train, or 
even of the cannon ball, is as nothing ; at distances 
so vast that the mind of man cannot at all conceive 
them. Instead of small size, absolute rest, and 
trifling distance, he contemplates stupendous size, 

fearfully rapid motion, and distance inconceivable. 
Among all these wonders of size, speed, and dis- 
tance, I shall confine my attention to the last, and 
shall say a few words about the distances of the 
heavenly bodies. 

I will take it for granted that my young readers 
know something about the solar system ; that they 
know, for instance, the names of its chief bodies, 
their size, positions, motions, etc. I will therefore 
merely remind them that the moon is distant from 
us about 240,000 miles ; while of the other bodies 
of the system, the smallest distances are about as 
follows : Venus, 26,000,000 ; Mars, 48,000,000 ; 
Mercury, 56.000,000; the sun, 91,000,000; the 
asteroids, 110,000,000; Jupiter, 384,000,000; Sat- 
urn, 7S0, 000,000 ; Uranus, 1,660,000,000; and 
Neptune, 2,650,000,000 miles. 

The distances here approximately expressed in 
millions of miles, no doubt seem great enough ; 
yet the mere statement of them can give no true 
idea of their real magnitude. Indeed, no human 
intellect can in any way form a just conception of 
them. Still, something better can be done than 
merely to talk about so many miles, whether in 
thousands or in millions. The distances must be 
not.merely stated, but illustrated. They will then 
be made not perfectly, nor even nearly clear, but 
somewhat clearer than any bare statement of fig- 
ures can make them. 

Doubtless our world is enormous. Compared 
with the largest of its creatures, and even with the 
space within which the greater part of such crea- 
tures move about, its size is indeed past compre- 
hending. But so wonderful are the means of travel 
now at our disposal, that almost any part of the 
earth, even the most distant, can be reached in a 
very short time. In less than a day the modern 
traveler can be carried hundreds of miles. In a 
week, he can go from the Atlantic to the Pacific, 



or from America to Europe. A little more than a 
month will take him to the ends of the earth. 
Thus, Mr. Kcnnan, who is now writing for " The 
Century" a series of articles on Siberia, reached 
the frontier of that distant land in about six weeks 
after he left New York, notwithstanding that he 
made several stoppages and traveled several hun- 
dred miles by wagon. Thus it will easily be seen 
that no single journey upon our earth, however 
long, can occupy more than a small part of the 
average human life. The time required for a few 
journeys more or less to China, Australia, or the 
Cape of Good Hope, would hardly be noticed in 
comparison with an ordinary lifetime. 

Let us now contrast these distances with some 
few of the distances in space, choosing as our 
mode of comparison and illustration the time 
it would take to travel each given distance at a 
fixed rate of speed. We will suppose certain rail- 
ways to be built : one round the world in a perfect 
circle, others to various points in the solar system. 
And we will further suppose that the trains on 
these railways could be kept going at the rate of 
sixty miles an hour for any required length of time ; 
that their passengers could do without food or 
could be supplied with an abundance of it; that 
the bodies of such passengers could be made capa- 
ble of enduring the various changes of air, tem- 
perature, and other climatic conditions, to which 
they would be exposed. 

And on our world this kindof travel would becom- 
paratively easy, and would take next to no time. In 
twenty-four hours the passenger could travel 1440 
miles, or considerably farther than from New York 
to Chicago. In forty-eight hours he could travel as 
far as from Boston to Liverpool ; and in less than 
seventeen days he could go round the world. But, 
as regards the journeys in space, a difficulty in 
most cases insuperable would stand in the way. 
In order to visit any but a very few of the nearest 
bodies in space, the travelers on our celestial rail- 
ways would need to have their lives very greatly 
prolonged. Were they to set out for any distant 
part of the system, they all would die before they 
had fairly begun their journey. A voyage to the 
moon, to Venus, or to Mars would, under the above 
conditions, be possible ; to any other body in the 
system it would be impossible. 

The journey to the moon would be compara- 
tively short. Our companion is distant about 
240,000 miles ; or, in round numbers, its distance 
contains ten times as many miles as are contained 
in the earth's circumference. 

Traveling at the rate of sixty miles an hour, and 
never stopping, it would take between 166 and 167 
days to reach the journey's end. Compared with 
other heavenly distances, this is a mere nothing; 

but compared with the distances actually traversed 
by the average man, it is very great indeed. Few 
ever travel at sixty miles an hour, and then only 
for short periods, and at considerable intervals. 
Many, probably the majority, of those who live to 
a good old age cover less than 240,000 miles dur- 
ing their whole lives. A great traveler might do 
it in, say, fifteen years. For even a conductor or 
engineer of an express train, it would require several 

Let us now take a trip to the planet Venus, our 
next nearest neighbor. This will be a much more 
formidable undertaking. We have seen that a 
succession of the longest journeys over this earth 
would form but short and passing episodes in a 
lifetime. We have seen that, on one of our imag- 
inary railways, the traveler could circle the world 
in less than three weeks. We have seen, not only 
that a journey to the moon is quite possible to the 
passengers by our celestial railway, but that equal 
and even greater distances are often traveled on 
earth. But a trip to Venus would be a very dif- 
ferent matter. Venus, as already stated, is about 
26,000,000 miles away ; or, at sixty miles an hour, 
without stopping, she is distant a journey not of 
three weeks, or six months, but of some Jiffy years. 
On the imaginary railway, such a journey would 
be possible, for a great many persons live longer 
than fifty years. But in real life no one ever has 
traveled, and no one ever will travel, anything 
like so far. No human being ever has traveled 
5,000,000 miles ; and it is safe to say that no one 
ever will. To complete this measure of journey- 
ing would require an average of 100,000 miles a 
year for fifty years. Some few, perhaps, in all their 
lives, may have traveled 1,000,000 miles, but these 
are probably very rare exceptions. So we see that 
no one ever has lived who has traveled more than 
a small part of the distance to Venus. Yet, com- 
pared with other bodies in the system, this star may 
be said to be almost a next-door neighbor. 

■ Much the same statement may be made of the 
trip to Mars, which would take over ninety years. 
To a few of the supposed passengers the trip would 
be possible, for some persons pass their ninetieth 
year. But on this earth the greatest travelers would 
probably have to stop at about one forty-eighth of 
the distance. 

Henceforth, however, the circumstances are en- 
tirely changed. Even under the impossible con- 
ditions above assumed, the smallest of the remain- 
ing distances is too great to be traversed within the 
term of one human life, even were it to reach the 
extreme limit of one hundred years. Mercury and 
the sun are comparatively quite near us, yet to go 
to Mercury would take more than 100 years, or 
rather more than the time that has elapsed since 




the beginning of the French Revolution ; while the 
journey to the sun would last about 175 years, or as 
long a time as has gone by since the reign of 
Queen Anne. 

But after this the distances increase at a much 
greater rate. Those already mentioned are trifles 
to them. Omitting the asteroids, we will at once 
proceed to Jupiter. To get there would take over 
730 years. Were such a journey just ended, it 
would have begun about the time of Thomas 
a Becket, and would have been in progress more 
than 340 years when Columbus first set sail for the 
new world. 

But this journey would be mere child's-play, com- 
pared with a voyage to Saturn. The traveler to the 
ringed planet would be no less than 1475 years on 
his way. Supposing his journey just over, he would 
have begun it at a time when the Roman Empire 
still ruled the world, and 450 years before the time 
of Alfred. 

All the preceding journeys, vast though they are, 
could yet have been taken within a time less than 
the Christian era. The one we shall have to take 
next brings us back to an age far more remote. 
Uranus is three thousand years distant. Three 
thousand years ago, King David's life had not 
begun, and Greece had yet to make for herself a 
name in history, or even in fable. 

We come at last to Neptune, the outermost of 
the planets. This planet is distant more than five 
thousand years. Could we imagine Abraham as 
living from his birth until now, and that with the 
planet Neptune as his destination he had traveled 
continuously at sixty miles an hour all that time, 
he would still be a long way from his goal. 

One more illustration and we will leave the 
solar system. Neptune's path about the sun 
measures about 16,200,000,000 miles. If bodies 
as large as the world were placed side by side, 
like beads on a necklace, so as to fill the entire 
path, these great beads would number over 
2,000,000 ; i. e., there would be about three times 
as many of them as there are words in the Bible. 

But, compared with even that portion of space 
which the naked eye can survey, the solar system 
is something like a small corner lot to a large city. 
As Mr. Proctor truly observed, " tremendous as 
are the dimensions of the solar system, the widest 
sweep of the planetary orbits sinks into insignifi- 
cance compared with the distance which separates 
us from even the nearest of the fixed stars." We 
have seen that an express train, going at the rate 
of sixty miles an hour, would take five thousand 
years to get to the planet Neptune. But to reach 
Alpha Centauri, the nearest of the fixed stars, — a 
distance of some 20,000,000,000,000 miles, — the 
same train would take, not thousands nor hundreds 

of thousands, but millions of years ; in round num- 
bers, 35,000,000. No one, of course, can form the 
least idea of what such a time really is. No one can 
conceive what is really meant by 1,000,000 years. 
Few realize the great length of time expressed by 
the term 1,000,000 days. Think of the days that 
have passed since the founding of the " eternal 
city" of Rome; yet 1,000,000 days ago, Rome 
was a city of the future. One million days ago, 
Xerxes, Miltiades, and Leonidas were yet un- 
born; the beginning of the Christian era was far- 
ther in the future than the Crusades are in the past. 
What, then, shall we say of 35,000,000 years? 

To take another example : Suppose one were to 
travel every day as far as from here to the sun ; 
that is to say, a distance which an express train 
would cover in about 175 years. Then while the 
journey to Neptune would take about a month, 
it would require six hundred years to reach the 
star called Alpha Centauri. 

But awful as is the distance of this star, it is as 
nothing compared with that of other heavenly 
bodies. Sirius, one of the nearest of the fixed 
stars, is at least four times as far away ; while 
many, perhaps most, of the stars visible to the naked 
eye are quite four times as far away as Sirius. And 
when we come to some of the stars which only the 
telescope reveals, we find that whereas light, travel- 
ing at the rate of 10,000,000 miles a minute, 
comes to us from Alpha Centauri in considerably 
less than four years, it can not reach us from the 
telescopic stars in less than thousands, and hun- 
dreds of thousands, of years. 

Another illustration may be taken from the 
motion of the heavenly bodies. Look, for instance, 
at the bright star Sirius. Year after year it ap- 
pears the same ; of the same size, the same bright- 
ness, the same distance. And so, no doubt, it has 
appeared for centuries past, and will continue to 
appear for centuries to come. And yet it is 
asserted that Sirius and the earth are shooting 
apart — at times over twenty miles a second. Let 
us stop a moment and see what this would mean. 
In one minute, Sirius recedes as far as from New 
York to Winnipeg ; in sixteen minutes it travels a 
distance equal to the earth's circumference ; and 
in less than three hours a space is covered equal 
to that between us and the moon. Yet, to double 
its present distance, it would have to go on thus 
receding for over 100,000 years; and to become 
invisible to the naked eye, that speed of separation 
would have to continue over 1,000,000 years. 

These few general statements have been writ- 
ten with a hope of exciting the interest of young 
readers, and urging upon them the advantage of 
acquiring some knowledge, however slight, of as- 
tronomy — oneofthe noblest and most wonderful of 


1 97 

the sciences. To most of them, the acquisition of not but be a source of much pleasure and of no 

astronomical knowledge either deep or exact, will less profit. If properly studied and appreciated, 

be impossible. But even the slight information Astronomy elevates the intellect as greatly as it 

which may be gained by the general reader, can interests the imagination. 

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By James Whitcomb Riley. 

When little Claude was naughty once, 

At luncheon-time, and said 
He 'd not say " Thank you " to Mamma, 

She made him go to bed, 
And cover up and stay two hours ; — 

So when the clock struck two, 
Then Claude said " Thank you, Mr. Clock, 

I 'm much obliged to you ! " 

One Oc- 
tober day, 
in the last 
October that 
ever was, I 
stood in the 
lower, right- 
hand corner-room 
of a wonderful old 
German house; and 
the baker's wife — this 
same lower, right-hand 
corner-room being now used as a bake-shop — 
brought out the family photograph-album, and 
opened it upon the counter. Among the pictures 
there was one showing a young man in a fanci- 
ful dress, with a plume in his hat and a fife raised 
to his lips. 

"That is my husband's cousin, Wilhelm," said 

the baker's wife. " He was the Piper on the six 
hundredth Anniversary. The first day, he wore 
a black mantle, and went through the town piping; 
and all the little children dressed in gray, to rep- 
resent rats and mice, danced after him, down to 
the river. And the second day," continued the 
baker's wife, " my husband's cousin Wilhelm wore 
a many-colored dress ; and then the little children 
followed him out of the town over to the Koppen 
mountain. It was exactly as it happened in Ha- 
melin six hundred years ago." 

'• And do you think it really happened, then ? " 
I asked. 

" They say it happened," answered the baker's 
wife wisely. " Of course there is no one to ask." 

In the bake-shop were boxes of bonbons for sale, 
each box holding six sugar mice and a diminutive 
tin fife ; and when, later, I wandered through the 
streets of Hamelin, I noticed that every shop-win- 

: :-r- ■ 


t * L 

dow contained rats and mice and merry-look- 
ing pipers, made in porcelain, paper, bread, or 

The narrow by-way, on one corner of which 
stands the wonderful old house, is called the 
" Drumless Street " ; for (so the baker's wife told 
me) since that day of misfortune, six hundred years 
ago, when the children danced down this by-way 
to the music of their loved piper, neither the sound 
of drum nor fife nor any other instrument is al- 
lowed within its limits. 

The old tradition of the Pied Piper has be- 
come widely famous through two well-known 
poems, one by an English, the other by a German 

How much of it is true one can not exactly say, 

and, as the baker's wife remarked, there is no one 
to ask. But certain it is, that something curious 
must have happened once in " Hamelin town," 
for every traveler who strays to-day through the 
Drumless Street, and looks up at the old house on 
the corner, can read this inscription : 

Anno 1284. 

On the day of St. John and St. Paul, on the 26 of June, 130 
children born In Hamelin were led away by a piper dressed in divirs 
colors, and lost on the Koppen. 

Upon an old house in the market-place, called 
the Wedding-house, from being used formerly for 
wedding festivities, are these words : 

After the birth of Christ, in 1284, 130 children born in Hamelin 
were led away by a piper and lost on the Koppen. 






Thus run the inscriptions, printed in old-fash- 
ioned German, above the second-story windows 
of these two curious houses. 

Every school-child, except the exceptional one, 
knows the story of the " Pied Piper," and that 

' Hamelin town 's in Brunsv 
By famous Hanover city." 


For the exceptional one, who has yet to read these 
familiar lines, here is the story told in prose. It is 
a story of too many rats and mice. The pastor 
could not preach his sermon. The teacher could 
not hear his classes. The old dames could not 
enjoy even a comfortable gossip at their spinning- 

wheels without being unpleasantly interrupted. 
There were rats who had a habit of rambling 
through the church during the service ; there 
were mice who daily danced across the school- 
room floor ; there were rats and mice who met 
together every evening, and held noisy festivities 
in the walls, and under the floor, and over the 
ceiling of the spinning-room. At this time of great 
need, when the Bin-germeister was worn thin with 
perplexity, a tall and handsome stranger appeared 
in Hamelin. No one knew whence he came, but 
the little children loved him at once, because of 
the sweet music he used to play to them upon his 
fife, and the older people were never tired of hear- 



ing the songs he was always ready to sing. This 
stranger came to the Biirgermeister and promised 
that for a certain sum of money he would free the 
town of its plague, to which condition the Biirger- 
meister gave a joyful assent. When the next full 
moon shone upon Hamelin, the piper went through 
the streets playing a wonderful melody, and forth 
from every corner came all the old rats and young 
rats and middle-aged rats, and pretty gray mice, and 
the piper led them to their end in the River Weser. 
One rat alone remained in the town, 
a sad old creature, who, being deaf 
and blind and stiff with years, could 
not follow the piper's music. There 
was great rejoicing among the 
people as this deliverance became 
known. The preacher was able to 
preach his Sunday sermon, the 
school-children to repeat their 
week-day multiplication-tables, and 
the old dames to finish their evening 
gossip without a single interruption. 
Such a peaceful state of affairs had 
long been unknown in "Hamelin 
town." The City Council, however, 
having debated during several sittings 
the possibility of paying the piper a less 
sum than they had promised, finally decided 
not to pay him anything, and the piper, in his in- 
dignation, resolved to bring as much dismay 
among the people as he had already brought de- 
light. So, on a bright, pleasant morning, when all 
the fathers and mothers were safely locked in the 
church (it being the custom to lock the church 
doors that no belated worshiper should disturb 
the devotions of those assembled in proper season), 
the Pied Piper went from house to house playing 
softly, and the little children ran out to meet him, 
crying, " Here is our dear piper again." And they 
followed him, dancing through the streets and out 
of the town to the Koppen mountain. 

Of all that merry crowd, the only child who 
came back was a poor lame girl, left behind be- 

cause she was unable by reason of her infirmity to 
keep up with the others. 

— As 1 lingered in " Hamelin town," on this Octo- 
ber afternoon in the last October that ever was, 1 
met a bare-headed little girl with a band of flowers 
fastened sash-fashion over her shoulder, and from 
this wreath hung six heart-shaped cakes. I asked 
whether she knew the story of the Pied Piper. 

"Ach, ja ! " said the little girl, smiling. " I was 
a mouse. I was the smallest mouse. To-day 1 
am six years old ! " 

Therefore, although there is some 
uncertainty concerning what may or 

may not have 
happened six 
hundred years 
ago, we know, 
without any 
doubt, that on 
one certain 
26th of June, 
not long ago, 
this old tradi- 
tion became a living thing — for did not the baker's 
wife say that her husband's cousin Wilhelm was the 
Pied Piper, and has not the birthday-child also told 
us that she herself, as the smallest among the mice, 
danced after him down to the river on that very day ? 



By Frances Hodgson Burnett. 

Nearly all the day she sat — poor little girl ! — 
by her window, looking out at the passers-by in 
the snowy street. But she scarcely saw the peo- 
ple at all. Her thoughts were far away, in the 
little village where she had always spent her 
Christmas before. Her Aunt Clotilde had allowed 
her at such times to do so much ! There was 
not a house to which she did not carry some 
gift — no child who was forgotten. And the 
church on Christmas morning had been so beauti- 
ful with flowers from the hot-houses of the chateau. 
It was for the church indeed that the conservatories 
were chiefly kept up. Mademoiselle de Roche- 
mont would scarcely have permitted herself such 

But there would be no flowers this year. The 
chateau was closed ; there were no longer garden- 
ers at work ; the church would be bare and cold ; 
the people would have no gifts ; there would be 
no pleasure in the little peasants' faces. 

Little Saint Elizabeth wrung her slight hands 
together in her lap. 

" Oh," she cried, " what can I do ? And then 
there are the poor here — so many. And I do 

It was not alone the poor she had left in her 
village who were a grief to her. As she drove 
through the streets she now and then saw haggard 
faces ; and when she had questioned a servant 
who one day came to her to ask alms for a poor 
child at the door, she had been told that in parts 
of this great, bright city which she had not seen, 
there was cruel want and suffering, as in all great 

" And it is so cold now," she thought, " with 
the snow on the ground." 

The lamps in the street were just beginning to 
be lighted when her Uncle Bertrand returned. It 
appeared that he had brought back with him the 
gentleman with the kind face. They were to dine 
together, and Uncle Bertrand desired that Made- 
moiselle Elizabeth should join them. Evidently 
the journey out of town had been delayed for a 
day at least. There came also another message — 
Monsieur de Rochemont wished Mademoiselle to 
send to him by her maid a certain box of antique 
ornaments which had been given to her by her 
Aunt Clotilde. Elizabeth had known less of the 

value of these jewels than of their beauty. She 
knew they were beautiful, and that they had 
belonged to Aunt Clotilde in the gay days of 
her triumphs as a beauty, and a brilliant young 
woman, but it seemed that they were also very 
curious, and Monsieur de Rochemont wished his 
friend to see them. When Elizabeth went down- 
stairs she found the gentlemen examining them 

"They must be put somewhere for safe keep- 
ing," Uncle Bertrand was saying. "It should 
have been done before. I will attend to it." 

The gentleman with the kind eyes looked at 
Elizabeth with an interested expression as she 
came into the room. Her slender little figure in 
its black velvet dress, her delicate little face with 
its large, soft, sad eyes, the gentle gravity of her 
manner, made Elizabeth seem quite unlike other 

He did not seem to find her simply amusing, as 
her Uncle Bertrand did. She was always con- 
scious that behind Uncle Bertrand's most serious 
expression there was lurking a faint smile as he 
watched her — but this visitor looked at her in a 
different way. He was a doctor she discovered. 
Dr. Norris her uncle called him. And Elizabeth 
wondered if his profession had not perhaps made 
him quick of sight and mind. 

She felt that it must be so when she heard him 
talk at dinner. She found that he did a great 
deal of work among the very poor ; that he had a 
hospital where he received children who were ill, — 
or who had perhaps met with accidents and could 
not be taken care of in their wretched homes. He 
spoke frequently of terrible quarters where there 
was the greatest poverty and suffering. And he 
spoke of these things with so much eloquence and 
sympathy that even Uncle Bertrand began to 
listen with interest. 

" Come," said the doctor, " you are a rich, idle 
fellow, de Rochemont, and we want rich, idle fel- 
lows to come and look into all this and do some- 
thing for us. You must let me take you with me 
some day." 

" It would pain me too much, my good Norris," 
said Uncle Bertrand, with a slight shudder. " I 
should not enjoy my dinner after it." 

" Then go without vour dinner,"said Dr. Norris. 


20 ; 

" These people do. You have too many dinners. 
Give up one." 

Uncle Bert rand shrugged his shoulders and 

'• It is Elizabeth who fasts," he said. " Myself. 
1 prefer to dine. And yet some day I may take 
a fancy to visit these people with you." 

Elizabeth could scarcely have been said to dine 
that evening. She could not eat. She sat with 
her large sad eyes fixed upon Dr. Norris's face as 
he talked. Every word he uttered sank deep into 
her heart. The want and suffering of which he 
spoke were more terrible than anything she had 
ever heard. It had been nothing like this in the 
village — Oh, no, no ! As she thought of it, there 
was a look in her dark eyes that almost startled 
Dr. Norn's several times when he glanced at her. 
But as he did not know the particulars of her life 
with her aunt and the strange training she had 
had, he could not possibly have guessed what was 
going on in her mind, and how much effect his 
stories were having. The beautiful little face 
touched him very much, and the pretty French 
accent with which the child spoke seemed very 
musical to him and added a great charm to the 
gentle, serious answers she made to the remarks 
he addressed to her. He could not help seeing 
that something had made this little Mademoiselle 
Elizabeth a singular and pathetic little creature, 
and he continually wondered what it was. 

" Do you think she is a happy child?" he asked 
Monsieur de Rochemont when they were once more 
alone together. 

" Happy," said Uncle Bertrand with his light 
smile. " She has been taught, my friend, that to 
be happy upon earth is a mere frivolity. I think 
I have told you that she, — this little one, — desires 
to give all her fortune to the poor. Having heard 
you this evening, she will wish to bestow it upon 
your pensioners." 

When, having retired from the room with a 
grave and stately little obeisance to her uncle and 
his guest, Elizabeth had gone upstairs, it had not 
been with any intention of going to bed. She 
sent her maid away and sat thinking for a long 

But just as she laid her head upon her pillow 
an idea came. The ornaments given to her by 
her Aunt Clotilde — somebody would buy them. 
They were her own — it would be right to sell 
them. To what better use could they be put? 
Was it not what Aunt Clotilde would have de- 
sired ? Had she not told her stories of the good 
and charitable who had sold the clothes from 
their bodies that the miserable might be helped? 
Yes, it was right. These things must be done. 
All else was vain and useless and of the world. 

But it would require courage — great courage. 
To go out alone, to find a place where the people 
would buy the jewels, — perhaps there might be 
some who would not want them. And then when 
they were sold, to find those poor and unhappy 
quarters of which her uncle's guest had spoken, 
and to give to those who needed, — all by herself. 
Ah ! what courage it would require ! And then, 
Uncle Bertrand ! Some clay he would ask about 
the ornaments and discover all, and his anger 
might be terrible. No one had ever been angry 
with her. How could she bear it. She thought 
of Saint Elizabeth and the cruel Landgrave. It 
could not ever be so bad as that ; but, whatever 
the result might be, it must be borne. 

So at last she slept ; and there was upon her gen- 
tle little face so sweetly sad a look that when her 
maid came to waken her in the morning she stood 
by the bedside for some moments looking down 
upon her pityingly. 

The day seemed very long and sorrowful to the 
poor child. It was full of anxious thoughts and 
plannings. She was so innocent and inexperi- 
enced — so ignorant of all practical things. She 
had decided that it would be best to wait until 
evening before going out, and then to take the 
jewels and try to sell them to some jeweler. 

She did not understand the difficulties that would 
lie in her way, but she felt very timid. 

Her maid had asked permission to go out for 
the evening, and Monsieur de Rochemont was to 
dine out, so she found it possible to leave the 
house without attracting attention. 

As soon as the streets were lighted she took 
the case of ornaments, and, going downstairs very 
quietly, let herself out. The servants were dining, 
and she was seen by none of them. 

When she found herself in the snowy street she 
felt strangely bewildered. She had never been out 
unattended before, and she knew nothing of the 
great busy city. When she turned into the more 
crowded thoroughfares, she saw several times that 
passers-by glanced at her curiously. Her timid 
look, her foreign air, and richly-furred dress, and 
the fact that she was a child and alone at such an 
hour, could not fail to attract attention ; but, 
though she felt confused and troubled, she went 
bravely on. It was some time before she found a 
jeweler's shop, and when she entered it the men 
behind the counter looked at her in amazement. 
But she went to the one nearest to her and set the 
case of jewels on the counter before him. 

"I wish," she said in her soft, low voice, and 
with the pretty accent, "I wish that you should 
buy these." 

The man stared at her and at the ornaments, 
and then at her again. 




•' I beg pardon, miss," he said. 

Elizabeth repeated her request. 

" I will speak to Mr. Moetyler," he said, after 
a moment of hesitation. 

He went to the other end of the shop to an 
elderly man who sat behind a desk. After he 
had spoken a few words, the elderly man looked 
up as if surprised — then he glanced at Eliza- 
beth — then after speaking a few more words he 
came Toward. 

" You wish to sell these?" he said, looking at 
the case of jewels with a puzzled expression. 

" Yes," Elizabeth answered. 

He bent over the case and took up one orna- 
ment after the other and examined them closely. 
After he had done this he looked at the little girl's 
innocent trustful face, seeming more puzzled than 

" Are they your own ? " he inquired. 

" Yes, they are mine," she replied timidly. 

" Do you know how much they are worth ? " 

" I know that they are worth much money," 
said Elizabeth. " I have heard it said so." 

" Do your friends know that you are going to 
sell them ? " 

" No," Elizabeth said, a faint color rising in her 
delicate face. " But it is right that I should do it." 

The man again spent a few moments in exam- 
ining them, and, having done so, spoke hesitat- 

"I am afraid we must not buy them," he said. 
" It would be impossible, unless your friends first 
gave their permission." 

" Impossible ? " said Elizabeth, and tears rose in 
her eyes, making them look softer and more wist- 
ful than ever. 

" We could not do it," said the jeweler. " It is 
out of the question — under the circumstances." 

"Do you think — " faltered the disappointed 
child, " Do you think that nobody will buy them ? " 

" I am afraid not," was the reply. " No re- 
spectable firm who would pay their real value. If 
you '11 take my advice, miss, you will take them 
home and consult your friends." 

He spoke kindly, but Elizabeth was overwhelmed 
with disappointment. She did not know enough 
of the world to understand that a richly-dressed 
little girl who offered valuable jewels for sale at 
night must be a strange and unusual sight. 

When she found herself on the street again, her 
long lashes were heavy with tears. 

" If no one will buy them," she said, " what 
shall I do?" 

She walked a long way — so long that she was 
very tired — and offered them at several places ; 
but, as she chanced to enter only respectable shops, 
the same thing happened each time. She was 

looked at curiously and questioned, but no one 
would buy. 

" They are mine," she would say. " It is right 
that I should sell them." But every one stared 
and seemed puzzled, and in the end refused. 

At last, after much wandering, she found her- 
self in a poorer quarter of the city ; the streets 
were narrower and dirtier, and the people began 
to look squalid and wretchedly dressed ; there 
were smaller shops and dingier houses. She saw 
unkempt men and women and uncared-for little 
children. The poverty of the poor she had seen 
in her own village seemed comfort and luxury by 
contrast. She had never dreamed of anything 
like this. Now and then she felt faint with pain 
and horror. But she went on. 

"They have no vineyards," she said to herself. 
" No trees and flowers. It is all dreadful ! There 
is nothing. They need help more than the others. 
To let them suffer so and not to give them charily 
would be a great crime." 

She was so full of grief and excitement that she 
had ceased to notice how every one looked at her; 
she saw only the wretchedness and dirt and misery. 
She did not know, poor child, that she was sur- 
rounded by danger — that she was in the midst not 
only of misery, but of dishonesty and crime. She 
had even forgotten her timidity ; that it was grow- 
ing late, and that she was far from home and would 
not know how to return ; she did not realize that 
she had walked so far, that she was almost ex- 
hausted with fatigue. 

She had brought with her all the money she 
possessed. If she could not sell the jewels she 
could at least give something to some one in want. 
But she did not know to whom she must give first. 
When she had lived with her Aunt Clotilde it had 
been their habit to visit the peasants in their 
houses. Must she enter one of these houses — 
these dreadful places with the dark passages, from 
which she many times heard riotous voices and 
even cries. 

" But those who do good must feel no fear," she 
thought. " It is only to have courage." At length 
something happened which caused her to pause 
before one of these places. She heard sounds of 
pitiful moans and sobbing from something crouched 
upon the broken steps. It seemed like a heap of 
rags, but as she drew near she saw by the light of 
the street lamp opposite that it was a woman with 
her head on her knees and a wretched child at 
each side of her. The children were shivering with 
cold and making low cries as if frightened. 

Elizabeth stopped, and then ascended the steps. 

"Why is it that you cry ?" she asked gently. 
" Tell me." 

The woman did not answer at first, but when 




Elizabeth spoke again she lifted her head, and as 
soon as she saw the slender figure in its velvet 
and furs, and the pale, refined little face, she gave 
a great start. 

" Mercy on us," she said in a hoarse voice, which 
sounded almost terrified. " Who are yez, an' what 
bes ye doin' in a place the loike o' this ? " 

"I came," said Elizabeth, "to see those who 
are poor. I wish to help them. I have great sor- 
row for them. It is right that the rich should help 
those who want. Tell me why you cry, and why 
your little children sit in the cold." 

Everybody to whom Elizabeth had spoken that 
night had shown surprise, but no one had stared 
as this woman did. 

" It 's no place for the loike o' yez," she said, 
" an' it black noight, an' men and women not 
knowin' what they do — wid Pat Harrigan insoide 
as bad as the worst of them, an' it 's turned me 
an' the children out he has, to shlape in the snow — 
not for the furst toime, ayther. Shure, 't is starvin' 
we are — starvin', an' no other." She dropped 
her wretched head on her knees and began to 
moan again, and the children joined her. 

" Don't let yer daddy hear yez," she said to 
them. " Whisht now ! — it 's come out an' bate yez 
he will." 

Elizabeth began to feel tremulous and faint. 

" Is it that they have hunger? " she asked. 

" Nayther bite or sup have they had this day 
nor yesterday," was the answer. " The good 
saints have pity on us." 

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "the good saints have 
always pity. I will go and buy them food — poor 
little ones." 

She had seen a shop only a few yards away — 
she remembered passing it. Before the woman 
could speak again she was gone. 

" Yes," she said, "I was sent to them, — it is 
the answer to my prayer, — it was not in vain that 
I asked so long." 

When she entered the shop the few people who 
were in it stopped what they were doing to stare at 
her as others had done — but she scarcely saw that 
it was so. 

" Give to me a basket," she said to the owner 
of the place. " Put in it some bread and wine — 
some of the things which are ready to eat. It is 
for a poor woman and her little ones who starve." 

There was in the shop among others a red-faced 
woman with a cunning look in her eyes. She 
sidled out of the place and was waiting for Eliza- 
beth when she came out. 

" I 'm starvin', too, little lady," she said. 
" There 's many of us that way, an' it 's not often 
them with money care about it. Give me some- 
thing, too," in a wheedling voice. 

Elizabeth looked up at the woman — her pure 
ignorant eyes full of pity. 

" I have great sorrows for you," she said. " Per- 
haps the poor woman will share her food with 
you " 

" It 's money I need," said the woman. 

" I have none left," answered Elizabeth. " I will 
come again." 

" It 's now I need it," the woman persisted. 
Then she looked covetously at Elizabeth's velvet 
cloak, lined and trimmed with fur. " That 's a 
pretty cloak you 've on," she said. " You 've 
many another, I dare say." 

Suddenly she gave the cloak a pull, but the 
fastening did not give way as she had expected. 

" Is it because you are cold that you want it? " 
said Elizabeth in her gentle, innocent way. " I 
will give it to you. Take it." 

Had not all the charitable ones in the legends 
given their garments to the poor ? Why should 
she not give her cloak ? 

In an instant it was unclasped and snatched 
away, and the woman was gone. She did not even 
stay long enough to give thanks for the gift ; and 
something in her haste and roughness made Eliza- 
beth wonder, and gave her a moment of tremor. 

She made her way back to the place where the 
other woman and her children had been sitting ; 
the cold wind made her shiver and the basket was 
very heavy for her slender arm. Her strength 
seemed to be giving way. 

As she turned the corner, a great fierce gust of 
wind swept round it and caught her breath and 
made her stagger. She thought she was going to 
fall — indeed she would have fallen, but that one 
of two tall men who were passing put out his arm 
and caught her. He was a well-dressed man in 
a heavy overcoat ; he had gloves on. Elizabeth 
spoke in a faint tone. 

" I thank you," she began, when the second man 
uttered a wild exclamation and sprang forward. 

" Elizabeth ! " he said. " Elizabeth ! " 

Elizabeth looked up and herself uttered a cry. 
It was her Uncle Bertrand who stood before her, 
and his companion, who had saved her from fall- 
ing, was Dr. Norris. 

For a moment it seemed as if they were almost 
struck dumb with horror. And then her Uncle 
Bertrand seized her by the arm in such agitation 
that he scarcely seemed himself at all — the light, 
satirical, jesting Uncle Bertrand she had known. 

"What does it mean?" he cried. "What arc 
you doing here, in this horrible place, alone? Do 
you know where it is you have come ? What have 
you in the basket ? Explain — explain." 

The moment of trial had come, and it seemed 
even more terrible than the poor child had imag- 



ined. The long strain and exertion had been too 
much for her delicate body ; she felt that she 
could bear no more, the cold seemed to have 
struck to her very heart. She looked up at Mon- 
sieur de Rochemont's pale excited face, and trem- 
bled from head to foot. A strange thought flashed 
into her mind. Elizabeth of Thuringia, —the cruel 
Landgrave ! Perhaps she would be helped, too, 
since she was trying to do good. Surely, surely it 
must be so ! 

"Speak!" repeated Monsieur de Rochemont. 
"Why is this? The basket, what have you in it?" 

" Roses," said Elizabeth. "Roses." And then 
her strength deserted her, she fell upon her knees 
in the snow, the basket slipped from her arm, and 
the first thing which fell from it was — No, not 
roses. There had been no miracle wrought. Not 
roses ; but the case of jewels which she had laid on 
the top of the other things, that it might be more 
easily carried. 

"Roses!" cried Uncle Bertrand. "Is it that 
the child is mad? They are the jewels of my 
sister Clotilde." 

Elizabeth clasped her hands and leaned towardDr. 
Norris, the tears streaming from her uplifted eyes. 

"Ah ! Monsieur," she sobbed. " You will un- 
derstand. It was for the poor; they suffer so 
much. If we do not help them — I did not mean 

to speak falsely — 1 thought that the good " 

But her sobs filled her throat and she could not 
finish. Dr. Norris stooped and caught her up in 
his strong arms as if she had been a baby. 

"Quick!" he said imperatively. "We must 
return to the carriage, de Rochemont. This may 
be a serious matter." 

Elizabeth clung to him with trembling hands. 

" But the poor woman who starves," she cried ; 
" the little children. They sit upon the step quite 
near. The food was for them. I pray you to give 
it to them." 

"Yes, they shall have it," said the Doctor. 
' ' Take the basket, de Rochemont — only a few 
doors below." And it appeared that there was 
something in his voice which seemed to render 
obedience necessary, for Monsieur de Rochemont 
actually did as he was told. 

For a moment Dr. Norris put Elizabeth on her 
feet again, but it was only while he removed his over- 
coat and wrapped it about her slight, shivering body. 

" You are chilled through, poor child," he said. 
" And you are not strong enough to walk just now. 
You must let me carry you." 

It was true that a sudden faintness had come 
upon her, and she could not restrain the shudders 
which shook her. She had not recovered from 
them when she was placed in the carriage which 

the two gentlemen had thought it wiser to leave 
in one of the more respectable streets when they 
went into the worse ones together. 

' ' What might not have occurred if we had not 
arrived at that instant ! " said Uncle Bertrand, when 
he got into the carriage. 

"As it is, who knows what illness " 

" It will be better to say as little as possible now," 
interrupted Dr. Norris. 

" It was for the poor," said Elizabeth, trembling. 
" I thought I must go. I did not mean to do wrong. 
It was for the poor." 

And while her Uncle Bertrand regarded her with 
a strangely agitated look, and Dr. Norris held her 
hand between his strong and warm ones, the tears 
rolled down her pure, pale little face. 

She did not know until some time after what 
danger she had been in ; that the part of the city 
into which she had wandered was one of the lowest 
and worst, and was, in some quarters, the home of 
many wicked people. As her Uncle Bertrand had 
said, it was impossible to say what terrible thing 
might have happened if they had not met her so 
soon, it was Dr. Norris who explained it all to 
her as gently and kindly as was possible. She had 
always been fragile, and she had caught a severe 
cold which caused her an illness of some weeks. 
It was Dr. Norris who took care of her, and it was 
not long before her timidity was forgotten in her 
tender and trusting affection for him. She learned 
to watch for his coming, and to feel that she was no 
longer lonely. It was through his care that her 
uncle permitted her to send to the Cure a sum of 
money large enough to do all that was necessary ; 
it was through him that the poor woman and 
her children were clothed and fed and protected. 
When she was well enough, he had promised that 
she should help him among his own poor. And 
through him — though she lost none of her sweet 
sympathy for those who suffered — she learned to 
live a more natural and childlike life, and to find 
that there were in the world innocent, natural pleas- 
ures which should be enjoyed. In time she even 
ceased to be afraid of her Uncle Bertrand and to be 
quite happy in the great beautiful house. And as 
for Uncle Bertrand himself, he became very fond 
of her, and sometimes even helped her to dispense 
her charities. He had a light, gay nature, but he 
was kind at heart, and always disliked to see or 
think of suffering. Now and then he would give 
more lavishly than wisely. And then he would say, 
with his habitual graceful shrug of the shoulders: 

" Yes, it appears I am not discreet. Finally, I 
think I must leave my charities to you, my good 
Doctor Norris — to you and Little Saint Elizabeth." 



Vol. XVI.— 14. 


By Lucy G. Paine. 

NE rarely enters a gal- 
lery of modern paint- 
ings in Europe without 
seeing one or more views of 
Scheveningen upon the walls. 
Also in our own exhibitions, of 
. late years, charming bits of the 
■yjl picturesque town are often seen. 
\ It has become a favorite re- 
v sort for artists of every country ; 
for this village, though but two miles from the 
Hague, the most beautiful city of Holland, seems 
set away back in the forenoon of history. Its peo- 
ple, though mixing with those around them, never 
mingle, and seem like foreigners in the midst of 
their own countrymen. They rarely marry out of 
their beloved village, and retain, with their primi- 
tive dress and ways, a gentleness of manner and 
purity of life almost unique. 

A person entering Scheveningen at about noon, 
on a bright January day not long ago, might have 
believed himself to be looking through a magni- 
fying-glass at a picture by Gerard Dow. 

The same women and children whom Dow 
painted two hundred years ago seemed threading 
the street, basket or dish in hand ; or they could 
be seen through the polished windows sitting in 
the deep shadow of the rooms, bent over some bit 
of handiwork ; or scouring their copper utensils 
at little side-entrances ; or perhaps leaning over 
the half-door of the house, talking with a neighbor, 
the head and shoulders relieved with fine effect 
against the dark background of the interior. 

On their heads were the same close white caps 
which the old Dutch painters have made familiar, 
and they wore the same bodices and the same 
short petticoats, ballooned by some mysterious 
structures underneath. 

Scattered up and down the street were the fish- 
ermen, fathers, sons and brothers, standing in 
knots and talking, as they encountered one 
another while going from their dinners to their 
different occupations. 

The bricks of the cottage yards had been re- 
cently scoured. By many doors stood frames of 
tent-like form, holding flannels and clothing hung 

out to dry; not the general wash, but little dabs of 
casual washes, frequently interpolated throughout 
the week, by those who labor on small means. 

Before the quaintest of the many-colored little 
houses of this quaint town stood, in every position 
of heel and toe, fourteen wooden shoes, looking 
at first glance more like a flock of ducks nestling 
against one another, than the shoes which are 
always put off on entering the house by every in- 
habitant of Scheveningen. 

There was a world of character in these shoes. 
They were of all sizes ; some were so large that one 
of them might almost be used for a baby's bath, and 
they dwindled down to wee shoes which seemed 
to seek shelter under the protection of those more 
grown up. But just beside the door stood two 
apart, resting with their toes on the ground, and 
their heels daintily posed against the house. There 
was an individuality about these which bespoke 
their owner. They might have been bought from 
the same lot as the others, but they showed selec- 
tion ; or had become so pervaded by the character 
of the one who wore them, as to have an air and 
fashion of their own. Also a poesy, for as the pe- 
destrian approached nearer to the little house with 
its two green doors, one divided horizontally, the 
other with a tiny pent-roof, closed in on the north 
side to shut out the prevalent winter wind, he 
might have beheld in the toes of one pair of shoes 
a few fresh roses and hot-house flowers, evidently 
deposited there but a moment before — long enough , 
however, to give the donor time to escape obser- 

It offered a pretty bit- of color to brighten up 
the white winter day, and indicated a delicate 
devotion on the part of some affectionate friend. 

Presently the door of the cottage opened, and 
three stalwart men, a father and two sons, came 
forth in their stout brown stockings, every one 
stepping from the threshold into his own shoes, 
as if by intuition he knew his own from the others 
thus huddled promiscuously together. 

As they turned to leave, the eyes of the elder 
son were attracted by the flowers, and he called 
back into the doorway, " Oh, Truitje, here are more 
roses in your shoes ! " and in an instant a girl of 


21 I 

fifteen, erect in carriage and with carnation cheeks, 
came running to the door. Her old-time costume 
set off her beauty admirably, and her feet were 
slipped into the pattens, consisting of a sole with 
toe-piece, which the women wear about their 
work when indoors. 

She stooped, and lifting the flowers caressingly, 
put them to her face, and inhaled their perfume. 
Then, with a warm flush on her cheek, she stood 
looking wonderingly up and down the street, and 
even up into the air, as if to discover whence they 
had appeared. It was not the second or third 
time that the coquettish little wooden shoes had 
been thus glorified. This was January. The 
bathing season at the watering-place outside the 
village had closed unusually early, and every two 
weeks since, the flowers had sprung in Truitje's 
shoes, planted there as by some invisible hand. It 
was a delicious mystery. Truitje had sacrificed 
many a dinner to solve it, but the flowers must 
have been in the secret, for they never came when 
she was on guard, notwithstanding she was so 
pretty a spy. 

That Truitje Meeris was the pride of Scheven- 
ingen was beyond dispute. That all the Scheven- 
ingen girls acknowledged it, was proof. It was also 
proof that Truitje deserved the distinction, for it 
showed her to be high-minded as well as comely. 

She was indeed full of a sweet charity which 
illumined her countenance and sent a warmth 
into the lives of all who came in contact with her. 

Truitje took the nosegay into the house and 
showed it, with bright eyes, to her mother (who 
always sympathized with her children in their 
pleasures), and they commented, as they had many 
times before, upon the enigmatic sender. 

We must leave the sweet roses to tell their secret 
later, while we go back a whole year, to a day as 
white and beautiful as this, and follow Truitje as 
she sets out on an errand for her mother, to the 
tiny shop which stands at the point where the long 
street curves, and takes itself out of view of the 

You might fancy her mind would be considering 
how much flour, and potatoes, and groceries of 
different sorts her mother had told her to buy. 
You would never suppose that she was thinking of 
a golden coronet or anything of that sort, — our 
dear, little, simple-hearted Truitje. Yet some- 
thing akin to this was really agitating her thoughts 
as she walked along in her stout stockings and 
strong wooden shoes. 

The girls of Scheveningen have an absorbing 
ambition, made rightful by the sympathy and en- 
couragement which their parents accord them in 
it. Indeed, in all Holland it is the same. It is to 
have, as early as possible after leaving childhood 

behind them, a golden casque to wear beneath 
their lace or muslin caps. It serves to distinguish 
a family when its daughters can don this head- 
gear at an early age. It is purchased at great 
sacrifice by peasants who are not well-to-do, for 
it costs a hundred dollars of our money, and 
often more. This is a great sum for a poor peasant 
to lay by, when the daily wants of his family are 
hard to meet. Sometimes these head-dresses come 
to them from some childless widow or a spinster 
aunt, or in descent from generation to generation, 
but a woman or girl who wears a casque carries her 
title of distinction and consequence with her. 

Naturally, then, parents having so pretty a daugh- 
ter as Truitje, and one so sweet and tender withal, 
felt that she, above every girl, deserved a casque. 
It was a grief to see her on fete-days, among the 
maidens, without the gleam of the casque shining 
through her cap, or the pretty ornaments which 
keep it in place projecting in front of her ears. 
They had promised Truitje that a certain propor- 
tion of the fish she took to market should be hers, 
and that the proceeds should be laid by toward the 
purchase of the casque. Her brothers occasionally 
made extra, money, after their return from the her- 
ring-fishery, and this they contributed to the store. 
The dear mother put by many a gulden in secret, 
denying herself a need, to swell the amount, and 
Truitje herself added to the sum by taking the sum- 
mer visitors at the hotels to drive in her dog-cart. 

Several times it had seemed as if Truitje were 
on the very eve of possession, when perhaps a fish- 
erman of the village would be lost, and his family 
left destitute, and she would draw upon her store 
for the widow and helpless orphans ; or old Mother 
Steen would be attacked with rheumatism and need 
flannels and remedies, and again Truitje would 
come to the front ; or little Betje Kals would be 
taken down with the fever and her poor grand- 
mother have no comforts for her, and the fund 
would be lessened once more. 

And now as she walked toward the shoppie, a 
new anxiety oppressed her. Her two dogs which 
she drove before the cart that carried her and 
the fish to market at the Hague, two miles distant, 
were ailing. This had never happened before, and 
it was suggested that they had been tampered with 
by some envious person, as they were acknowl- 
edged to be the fleetest dogs in Scheveningen. 
They were large, rough-coated animals, driven 
without reins and guided by the touch of a stick 
and by the voice. Sometimes they outran the swift- 
est horses. There had been no way of taking her 
fish to town that day, and on the morrow, the great 
market-day, she had hoped to make up the sum 
for the casque. While pondering over it, and 
deciding what to do, she reached the shoppie, 

2 I 2 



a tiny box about eight feet square, rilled with all 
sorts of trifles to meet the unexpected wants of a 
community which makes the bulk of its purchases 
at the Hague, bringing them back in the dog-carts 
in which the women and girls take their fish to 
market. For some time Truitje twisted upon her 
wooden shoe, waiting for some one to take her 
order. She finally stepped down into a cheery 
room, a foot below the level of the shop floor, the 
windows of which were filled with beautiful flowers, 
and called, " Vrouw Werff ! Vrouw Werff! " 

Then there came running from an inner room 
the mistress of the shop, with hands red from scrub- 
bing, and with many apologies for her tardiness. 

"Dear Vrouw Werff, I hope you are well," said 
Truitje; for it is always a proper thing to pass the 
compliments before making a purchase in Schev- 
eningen. They then gossiped a little in a harmless 
way, and Truitje explained that her purchases 
were so numerous because she had not been able 
to drive her dogs to town. "But I shall go to- 
morrow," she said as she bade Vrouw Werff good- 
bye. " Gertje and I will carry the fish to my cousin 
Dirk's boat, which goes by early in the morning." 

When Truitje next morning, with Gertje's aid, 
had boarded Dirk's tidy boat, she ran down into the 
cabin and found his wife Katrina and the two little 
boys, all of whom gave her a joyous welcome ; for 
there was no home which she entered that was not 
brighter for her presence. They were very merry 
during the short distance which yet was so long in 
time, for Dirk pulled his own boat along the canal 
by a rope attached to a leathern belt passed about 
his waist. 

On her arrival at the market, Truitje, aided by 
Dirk, removed her fish to the place which she always 
occupied. She was well known, and had a regular 
set of customers. A favorite in the market as in 
her village, her quickness to note if a fish were 
not what a customer would like, and her fairness 
in every particular, made the people feel safe in 
dealing with her. 

When about half the fish were sold, she discov- 
ered that Katrina's knitting was crowded into her 
little knitting-basket with her own. " The darling 
little Hans must have done that," said she to herself, 
"he is such a mischief. But what a pity ! Katrina 
was finishing off the thumb, and will need it to set 
up the other. She told me that she must finish 
both to-day, for the little Diedrich had lost his mit- 
tens overboard and his fingers and thumbs were 
freezing. I must tnke it back, if I lose all my fish ; 
dear Katrina will be so disappointed. I will ask 
Vrouw Korn to look after my baskets while I am 
away." So Truitje, thinking always of the interests 
of others before her own, and conscientious in what 
many disregard as trifles, weighed not for a moment 

the attainment of her casque against the completion 
of Diedrich's mittens, and ran to the boat with the 

On her return she found Vrouw Korn bartering 
with a crowd gathered around her own fish, and 
every one of Truitje's had disappeared. " How 
delightful ! " said she. " Some one must have come 
and taken the lot." And while waiting for her money 
till Vrouw Korn should dispose of her customers, she 
began to feed the storks, which, supported by the 
city, are allowed to wander through the market 
and pick up the refuse. 

When she returned to her post, Vrouw Korn was 
finishing with her last customer. " Why, Truitje," 
said she, "you have sold all your fish, have n't 
you ? " 

" Yes, dear Vrouw Korn, with your help I have, 
and I thank you truly." 

"My help?" said the astonished vrouw. 
" Why, I have been so muddled and put about 
by the crowd of people around me that it is a 
wonder I kept my senses. I have n't sold one ! " 

" Then what can have become of them? " said 
Truitje, in dismay. So she went about eagerly 
asking one and another if they knew what had be- 
come of her fish. Finally, a woman near her stand 
awoke to the recollection that she had seen several 
storks a long time about the spot, but concluded 
they were eating some stale fish that had been left 
for them. " You know you always sell them from 
your wagon, Truitje, and how could I think they 
were yours ? " 

It was a great blow. The small gains at the 
fisherman's cottage with the green doors were seri- 
ously affected by an amount which would seem a 
trifle to most persons. The thought of the casque, 
too, brought home to Truitje a sense of personal loss 
and of deep disappointment; but she put it away 
at once. " I shall make up the loss to the dear fa- 
ther and mother out of my store," said she as she 
took up her baskets to set out for the family pur- 
chases. I can better wait than they can want," 
and this reflection comforted her. There was one 
beautiful trait in her character — she knew how to 
keep a smiling face, and knew also how to hope 
and wait. So she made up her mind at once to 
save her mother from the disappointment, and 
this gave her so beautiful an expression that those 
who met her as she flitted from shop to shop won- 
dered what could give the brightness which lighted 
up her face. 

On reaching home, she told her mother of the 
loss and of her resolution to replace the money 
from her hoard. " The casque will come in 
time," said she. 

"And if the casque does not come, Truitje, a 
patient spirit will, and that is a better ornament," 




said the loving mother, pressing her daughter to 
her heart. 

The winter days went swiftly by, spring came 
also and departed, and the bright summer made 
all gay in Scheveningen. All the way to the 
Hague the trees trailed their green branches over 
the beautiful drive-way. The forest was full of. 
life again, with carriages and riders and pedes- 

red sails, with yellow sails, with white sails went 
dipping down into the troughs of waves and lift- 
ing on their crests, making the gray North Sea 
look as if it were in carnival. One could not be- 
lieve, in the midst of all this holiday aspect, that in 
a straight-away course lay the icy Arctic Sea, and 
that if one kept on he might find himself im- 
paled upon the North Pole. 



trians. As you turned your eyes to the right in 
leaving the Hague for the village, wonderful vistas 
cool and shadowy led away to grottoes and dim 
recesses. Kiosks and bowers and romantic bits 
of woodland scenery made " pictures in the eyes " 
of the beholder. Lakelets, and canals, and winding 
roadways, and rustic bridges made one dream of 

The great hotel was open, and flags flying from 
the cupola told that the fluttering life within had 
begun again. All the lesser hotels and cottages 
had their blinds thrown back, and the muslin cur- 
tains and pots of flowers gave a gala-day look 
to the fashionable summer-resort. The beach 
was crowded with promenaders, and boats with 

Scarcely a European nation but was represented 
there, — many Danes and Russians of distinction, 
Germans, French, English, Dutch, and some from 
the Mediterranean, who enjoyed contrasting the 
seas of the north and south. For there are times 
when this gray sea puts on wonderful coloring, 
and scintillates with prismatic hues, like some 
marine aurora. So there were comings and goings 
and "to-ings and fro-ings," and pleasure held the 
reins, or the helm, as the case might be. 

In the little fishing village, with its few thousands 
of dwellers, life was sunnier than before, but 
quieter. Most of the fathers and brothers had de- 
parted early in the season for the neighborhood 
of the Scottish coast to pursue the herring-fisher- 




ies, and the women and children were left almost 
alone. At the opening and closing" of the schools 
the cries of children at play might be heard through 
the streets, but ordinarily only the chatting of the 
gossips disturbed the quiet. Many of the women 
might be seen on the sands, their dresses trussed 
up, carrying fish in baskets, and gathering shells 
and mussels ; and the dog-carts were in great de- 
mand by foreigners from the other village who 
delighted in the novelty of driving in them, be- 
cause of the phenomenal swiftness of the dogs. 

The fleetest in the village were Truitje's. There 
might be some question of this on the part of 
others who owned dogs; but no one who was dis- 
interested was ever heard to doubt it. 

Sunday is the great holiday in Holland, as in all 
continental countries. Then the forest and the 
avenue between the Hague and Scheveningen are 
alive with the noble and the peasant alike. Every 
festivity is at its height on that day. The morn- 
ing is devoted to church-going, but the afternoon 
to recreation. 

It was on one of the brightest of these Sunday 
afternoons that Truitje drove up to the entrance 
of the great hotel in her dog-cart. It was spot- 
less. So were the dogs ; their rough coats were 
so clean that they threw off the sunbeams in 
sparkles of light. So was Truitje, with her odd 
but fascinating costume. Over the seat of the 
cart was thrown a light robe of soft gray cloth, 
having around it a trimming of the iridescent 
heads and necks of the eider-ducks, which her 
brothers had shot from time to time in their north- 
ern journeys. 

Two boys of about eleven and thirteen came 
running down the steps and climbed into the cart. 
It was a little crowded on the one seat. Truitje 
preferred only one passenger generally, but neither 
of these inseparable brothers could enjoy a pleas- 
ure without the other, so she had consented to 
take both. Besides, it increased the price, and 
Truitje was not to weigh a preference against that 

When they were seated she touched the dogs 
with the light, wand-like rod she carried, and off 
they went at a good pace. When she wished it 
increased she talked to the dogs in an undertone, 
as if there were a secret language between them, 
and indeed there was, a language of a good under- 
standing and reciprocal regard. 

The afternoon passed happily. There was not 
one of the occupants of the gay equipages on the 
drive who had not a smile of approval for the cart 
and its pretty guardian. 

The little party of three threaded the forest as 
well, and the boys treated themselves to the good 
things which were sold, and loaded Truitje with 

them also, notwithstanding her many protests. 
" Our papa told us to," was their repeated answer, 
and Truitje was pleased to think how Gertje and 
the four-year-old would feast on her return. The 
boys made several efforts to drive the dogs by 
touching them as they saw Truitje do, but they 
knew their mistress, and would never stir except 
for her well-known signal. 

The afternoon was beginning to wane, and a 
few carriages had left the forest, when Truitje 
found herself near the Forest House, belonging to 
the king, and filled with curiosities from the East, 
many of them gifts of emperors and great men 
with whom the Hollanders had mercantile inter- 
course in the days when they ruled the seas. 

She drove very rapidly by it, but slacked her 
speed before emerging on the avenue leading to 
Scheveningen. As she turned into this, she heard 
a carriage behind her approaching very rapidly. 
Suddenly her dogs began to increase their speed, 
and she saw out of the corner of her eye the heads 
of a pair of horses, which seemed to be gaining on 
her. She touched her dogs, and talking to them 
in low, persuasive tones, they sped faster and faster 
along. Then she heard a voice rebuking the 
coachman and asking him if he intended to be 
outstripped by a pair of fisherman's dogs? Then 
she felt a new spur was given to the horses, for 
they gained upon her. Again she used her wand 
to guide her dogs, for she felt herself being 
crowded to the side of the road. " Give her room ! 
give her room ! " called the occupant of the car- 
riage to the coachman. Then Truitje urged her 
dogs along, encouraging them by little ejacula- 
tions of tenderness, and by the time she reached 
the hotel she thought the race well over. Her 
passengers jumped to the ground, and were about 
to pay her, when she saw on glancing back that 
there was to be another spurt. So gayly calling 
out to the boys, "To-morrow !" she renewed the 

It was close, for the coachman was evidently on 
his mettle. There was but a half-mile to go. 
The broad avenue was lined with holiday-makers, 
and carriages drew up to one side to see the sport 
go on. Truitje sat erect in her wagon, her little 
hooded cloak hanging down her back, the ribbons 
which generally fastened it fluttering in the wind. 
Her snowy waist beneath her bodice was decorated 
with a beautiful nosegay bought for her in the 
forest by one of the little boys, and worn to please 
him. Her eyes sparkling, her rosy lips half open 
as she smiled and prattled to the dogs, she looked, 
as she moved her rod from one to the other, like a 
fairy with her enchanted wand. The doge flew. 
Their feet seemed hardly to touch the earth, and 
the men took off their hats, and the women waved 



their kerchiefs, — it was an exciting moment! 
All looked to see it end when Truitje entered the 
fishing village, — but no! On went the dogs, 
on went the horses, till Truitje drew up to the 
cottage with the pent roof over the door, jumped 
to the ground like a fay, and the dogs soberly 
took themselves and the cart around the cottage 
to the house where both were kept. 

At this moment the carriage was still making its 
way at speed, and Truitje, her cheeks glowing with 
excitement, watched its approach. It stopped, 
and judge how tumultuously beat her heart, when 
she found that the one sitting within it, with 
a beautiful girl about her age beside him, was 
her king ! Her impulses were, like her character, 
true. Seizing the nosegay from her bodice, she 
knelt upon the step of the carriage, and holding it 
up to him, said, in her artless way, " Dear King, I 
did not dream it was you ; forgive my rudeness." 

The King bent forward, and taking the flowers, 
said, "Thank you, dear child! You have done 
rightly, and I am better pleased that you should 
win than I, though I am a little ashamed of my 
boasted pair of horses. I know I can not be the 
first whom you have vanquished, and now I wish 
to know what above all other things you would 
like for yourself, because I must crown the victor, 
you know." 

" How strange ! " said Truitje, in her innocent 
way ; " the very thing I wish for most is a golden 
casque. And, dear King, I have the price in my 
box — all but sixty gulden ; would that be too much 
for you to give ? " 

" No, child," said the King, smiling. 

" Then I will be very glad, and so will they all, 
for they so wish me to have a casque." 

"What is your name, my child?" said the 

" Truitje Meeris, dear King," said Truitje. 

" And this is your home ?" 

" It is, dear King." 

"Very well. Good-bye, Truitje; I will keep 
your flowers as a souvenir of our race, and you 
must wear the casque I shall send, for the same 

"But, dear King, it is too much; it costs four 
hundred gulden ! " 

" No matter; mine will be different, it will cost 
another sum." 

So the Princess said, " Good-bye, Truitje," and 
when Truitje had kissed the King's hand, he 
drove away. 

The cottage of Vrouw Meeris was besieged that 
afternoon. All Scheveningen was alive with the 
news. Truitje had to tell her story many times 
before she went to bed, to please all the people. 
The strangers at the other village heard it. The 

father of the little boys, proud that his children 
should have a part in it, sent her twice the fare 
next morning. The journals at the Hague told it 
in a very pretty way, and Vrouw Werff, who kept 
the shoppie, and subscribed for the Hague journal, 
read it out to all the customers who called next 
day. " I always said," added she, to each reading, 
" that those dogs were the fleetest in Scheveningen, 
— and I say so now ! " 

The next Saturday afternoon, as the Meeris 
family were sitting about their supper-table cov- 
ered with snowy linen, a quaint tea-pot steam- 
ing beside the good vrouw, a messenger came 
with a package from the court goldsmith, con- 
taining a golden caserne beautifully engraved, 
and having the temple ornaments unusually fine, 
each one representing a little rose, such as Truilje 
had given the King. Just along the part which 
goes above the neck was this legend, "Truitje 
Meeris, from her King, July 30, 18 — ." It was a 
supreme moment in Truitje's life. It must have 
taken many times the sum she had laid by to 
purchase this. It fitted her perfectly. In fact, as 
these casques are made, of thinly laminated plates 
of gold, they adjust themselves to any head. It 
would have seemed a pity to us to see Truitje's 
hair disappear under a cap, and this again under 
the gold casque, because we admire beautiful hair ; 
but in the eyes of the Scheveningen folk she be- 
came transformed into something exceptionally 
fine. Next morning when she went to church, her 
mother watched her with pride as she sat among 
the other maidens ; and when in the afternoon 
she drove some stranger in the dog-cart to the 
forest, there were whisperings and noddings, and 
knowing looks thrown at her, and all seemed 
pleased at her good fortune because she wore it so 
innocently. She had only one more thing to wish, 
and that was to have her father and brothers return 
and know her great happiness. 

From that day, every two weeks found a nose- 
gay in her wooden shoes, but she never thought 
it could be the King who had it put there. One 
day, going into the shoppie, she noticed a new 
flower in Vrouw Werff 's window. She had never 
seen the flower but once, and that was in her 
bouquet of the clay before. 

" Dear Vrouw Werff," said she, " I had a flower 
like that with those in my shoe yesterday. Can 
you tell me what it is ? " 

At this the vrouw became very much agitated, 
and said in her confusion that it grew only in the 
royal green-houses. 

" Then Iww, dear Vrouw Werff, did you happen 
to be the only other one to have it?" said Truitje, 
in her unaffected way. 

"Why, you see Why, you sec " 





"No, dear Vrouw Werff, I do not see," said see"; and with a "Good-morning, dear Vrouw 

Truitje laughingly. Werff," she was off and away. 

"Well, Truitje, I can not tell you." The truth is, it was the Princess who had sent 

" Then, I suppose," said Truitje, " I never shall the flowers to Vrouw Werff, at the suggestion of 




the King, giving orders to the gardener to keep 
them constantly renewed, and the Vrouw promised 
for this to see that Truitje should every two weeks 
find a bunch of flowers secretly placed in her 
shoe. And so she does to this very day; for I saw 
those wooden shoes one soft mild January day, as 

I walked down the street of Scheveningen, and the 
gentle wind murmured this story in my ear, and 
the waves of the gray North Sea, as they sounded 
on the shore, kept saying, in tones I could not 

misunderstand, " It is true — It is true It 

is true ! " 

By Edmund Alton. 

Chapter III. 


PERHAPS no other feature of the Government has 
provoked such general criticism, or been so widely 
misrepresented and misunderstood, as has the 
office of President of the United States. Its crea- 
tion was the subject of singular comments among 
those who framed the Constitution; it was vio- 
lently denounced when that instrument was put 
before the people for their approval ; it has been 
the target for savage and persistent assault from 
that time to the present. And in regard to no 
other feature of the Government, it may be added, 
have the dismal forebodings of skeptics been so 
strangely disappointed by the results of experience 
and practice. 

In theory, it may be true that, as the making and 
enforcement of laws is the great function of gov- 
ernment, the power that executes the laws should 
be in perfect harmony with the power that makes 
them and be directly under its control — the execu- 
tive being thus simply the arm of the legislature, 
acting promptly and implicitly in obedience to its 
supreme will. This idea, though to-day observed 
in the workings of other governments, was not 
accepted by our forefathers. In lodging the execu- 
tive power in the hands of one person, the Con- 
stitution aimed to secure energy and precision in 
the execution of the laws ; but in establishing the 
Presidency as an independent branch of the Gov- 
ernment, removed as far as possible from the med- 
dlesome influence of Congress, and endowing it 
with important special powers, it suggested to 
many timid folk a vision of royalty in its most 
frightful shape. Nor were these thoughts quieted 
by events that followed in the history of the Gov- 
ernment. Indeed, our third President has given 
it as his opinion that Washington himself believed 

the Republic would end in something like a mon- 
archy, and that in adopting his stately levees 
and other pompous ceremonies he sought, in 
a measure, to prepare the people gradually for 
the change that seemed possible, in order that it 
might come with less shock to the public mind. 
This remarkable statement we need not take with- 
out proof. Whatever may have been Washington's 
secret fears, certain it is that his devotion to the 
Republic shielded it from such a fate ; and had 
some of his successors in office, or their advisers, 
been nearly as wise and as true to the spirit of the 
Constitution, they would have avoided acts which 
served to strengthen, rather than subdue, the 
popular distrust. 

That the actual power of the President exceeds 
that of some of the crowned dignitaries of earth is 
universally conceded. The Constitution did not 
intend that he should be a mere figurehead, or 
"ornamental cupola," to the Government. It 
not only confided to him the execution of the 
laws, but it armed him with a power over the 
making of laws which he might deem improper. 
By this, we mean the provision that every meas- 
ure passed by Congress shall be presented to 
him for his approval and signature, and that, if 
disapproved by him, he may return it with his 
objections, in which case it shall not become law 
unless again passed by the vote of two-thirds (in- 
stead of a majority, as in the first instance) of each 
House of Congress. Whether this power was given 
to him solely as a weapon to defend his own office 
or the integrity of the Constitution itself from at- 
tack by Congress, or whether the Constitution 
designed that he should in this way have a voice 
in the making of all laws, of whatever nature, is 
one of the questions still unsettled. The weight 
of opinion and the practice at the beginning of 
the Government seem to sustain the former view ; 
the strict language of the Constitution is in favor 




of the latter. The frequent exercise of the power 
in recent years, in marked contrast with its rare 
use by earlier Presidents, has aroused harsh feeling 
on the part of Congress and some very sober think- 
ing on the part of philosophers ; it is plain, how- 
ever, that the present Executive has no doubt 
upon the subject. The power is certainly mon- 
archical in its nature, and at first sight appears 
out of place in a Republic where the will of the 
people, as expressed by their representatives, 
should be the law. But here comes in the deliber- 
ate device of the Constitution. The executive 
branch of the Government was purposely so shaped 
as to act as a check against rash behavior by the 
legislative branch. The President is not the arm 
of Congress ; he does not owe his office to that 
body, nor is he directly responsible to it for his 
actions. He is elected, as is Congress, by the 
people ; and, like Congress, he is answerable to the 
people. Unlike a member of Congress, he is 
chosen not by the people of a particular State or 
district, but by the people of all the States.* He 
is, therefore, as an individual, the only represent- 
ative of all the people, and if, in their Constitu- 
tion, they saw fit to give to him, as their great 
national representative, this great influence over 
national legislation, — an influence equal to the 
votes of one-sixth of all the members of Congress, — 
there is nothing in it contrary to the principles of 
republican government. They hold him respon- 
sible for its exercise ; they have it within their 
power to remove him in case of its abuse ; they 
may take it entirely away from him should they 
so desire. As a matter of fact, there have been 
attempts in Congress to frame and submit to the 
people an amendment to the Constitution that 
shall deprive him of it ; but such an amendment 
the people — or those who have noted how often 
the exercise of this power has prevented unwise 
legislation, or at least caused Congress to stop in 
its haste and reflect — are hardly ready to adopt. 
On the other hand, some people favor an amend- 

* This statement should be explained. While, in effect, the Presi- 
dent is chosen by the people of the Union, he is chosen by them in 
an indirect and roundabout way — the people voting for electors 
who in turn vote for President. A direct election by the people 
would be in strict accordance with the theory of popular govern- 
ment; under the present system, it is possible for a President to be 
chosen by the votes of a majority of the electors, but against the 
wishes of a majority of the people. In the election of 1S76, for ex- 
ample, Hayes was made President by an electoral vote of 185, as 
against 1S4 counted for Tilden ; whereas, the " popular " vote — or 
vote of the people — cast for Hayes electors was 4,033,950, as 
against 4,eS4,885cast for Tilden electors — a difference of more than 
a quarter of a million in favor of Tilden. 

t A qualification may be remarked- The President might, at the 
close of a session of Congress, apply what is styled a " pocket veto," 
and thus temporarily impede that body For the Constitution allows 
him ten days before action upon any measure presented to him for 
approval ; and if, during those ten days and before action by him, 
Congress should adjourn, the measure would be defeated. Hence, 

ment to the Constitution increasing the power so 
that the President may single out and veto objec- 
tionable parts in a measure (as separate items in 
an appropriation bill) instead of being compelled 
to approve or disapprove every measure as a whole ; 
but an increase of power, in that direction, might 
lead to evils compared to which the evil sought to 
be corrected would be trivial. With the veto power 
as it stands, however, even were the President in- 
clined to be despotic, he can not balk the will of 
the people as declared by their representatives in 
Congress, if a sufficient number of those represent- 
atives insist on having that will enforced, f 

Another prerogative given to the President is 
the power to grant reprieves and pardons for 
offenses against the United States. This power is 
absolute (except in cases of impeachment and cases 
embraced within the meaning of the Fourteenth 
Amendment to the Constitution), and can be inter- 
fered with neither by Congress nor by the courts. 
It may be exercised at any time after the commission 
of an offense — whether before trial, during trial, 
or after conviction of the person accused ; and 
the President may make a pardon either condi- 
tional or unconditional, partial or complete. He 
may set aside the sentence, lessen or modify the 
punishment, or grant leniency or full pardon on 
condition that the person accepting it shall do cer- 
tain things. A full pardon restores the person to 
liberty and to all the rights and privileges of citi- 
zenship enjoyed by him before commission of the 
offense. By "offenses against the United States" 
is to be understood violations of Federal law ; 
offenses against State law, such as murder, con- 
cern the peace and dignity of the State wherein 
committed, and over such cases the President's au- 
thority does not extend. The exception as to cases 
of impeachment is to prevent the President from 
using his "prerogative of mercy" to screen from 
punishment guilty officers of the Government with 
whom he himself may have conspired, t The Four- 
teenth Amendment, formally declared ratified by 

the President could "pocket " or hold back any or all bills presented 
to him within ten days of the end of a session, and prevent their 
becoming laws — at any rate, until Congress should reconvene 
and pass them again as entirely new measures. It is an open 
question whether the President can even approve a bill after the 
adjournment of Congress; still, it has been attempted. Other 
nice points have arisen in regard to his power within the "ten- 
day " limit. 

tThe power of impeachment is given to Congress, and reaches 
over the President, Vice-President, the Federal judges, and all other 
civil officers of the United Slates, guilty of treason, bribery, or other 
high crimes and misdemeanors. Members of Congress, not being 
civil officers of the Government, are, in the opinion of the Senate, 
exempt from impeachment. Judgment in cases of impeachment 
can not extend further than to removal from office, and disqualifica- 
tion to hold and enjoy any office of honor, trust, or profit under the 
United States ; an officer convicted of an impeachable offense being 
still liable to the ordinary trial and punishment prescribed by law, as 
in the case of a private citizen. 



2 19 

proclamation dated July 28, 1S68, disqualifies from 
holding legislative or official station under the 
United States, or from holding office under any- 
State, all persons concerned in rebellion or insur- 
rection against the Government of the United 
States ; and this disability can be removed only by 
a two-thirds vote of Congress. The Amendment, 
therefore, restricts the pardoning power of the 
President to that extent in cases of treason. Dur- 
ing and after the War of the Rebellion, and upon 
the suggestion of Congress, national clemency was 
offered to political offenders by various Executive 
proclamations of amnesty ; but those issued by the 
President prior to the adoption of the Amendment 
were lawful under his Constitutional pardoning- 
power and did not need to be sustained by 
authority conferred upon him by Congress. 

A third power given to the President is the quali- 
fied authority to make treaties. A treaty being law, 
as much so as is a statute of Congress, the grant- 
ing of this legislative function to the President may 
seem another freak of the Constitution. The ex- 
planation is simple. The making of treaties often 
involves most delicate and cautious negotiations with 
foreign governments, and the President is better 
able to conduct them with secrecy and dispatch 
than a body of men, like Congress, in which the 
power might be vested. Here again, however, the 
authority of the President is restrained. After his 
negotiations are at an end, and the provisions of a 
proposed treaty drawn up in writing, he must sub- 
mit the draft of the agreement to the Senate for its 
deliberative advice and consent, and without the 
approval of two-thirds of that body the treaty can 
not be made. The rejection by the Senate of inter- 
national agreements submitted by the President is 
of quite common occurrence ; yet some representa- 
tives of foreign powers, not familiar with our Con- 
stitution, have expressed surprise on hearing that 
the action of our President, in reducing the result 
of patient negotiations to the form of an agree- 
ment, has been brushed aside as worthless by 
another branch of the Government. 

A fourth power of the President is that to con- 
vene the Houses of Congress, or either of them, on 
extraordinary occasions ; and to adjourn them, in 
case of disagreement between them over the ques- 
tion of adjournment, to such time as he may think 
proper. This power, too, is beyond positive abuse. 
Congress does not sit in continuous session ; it 
meets at a stated time each year, on the first 
Monday in December, and. when it has finished 
whatever work it may care to transact, it adjourns 
to re-assemble on its annual convening-day. 
If, during its recess, an emergency should arise 
calling for legislative action. Congress would be 
powerless to re-convene itself, and it is important 

that there should be some officer to take notice of 
the public necessity and call the law-makers to- 
gether before their regular time. But Congress 
has it within its own power to sit every clay in the 
year, and it can not be forced to adjourn so long 
as it desires to continue in session ; and history 
furnishes us with an illustration where Congress 
has prolonged its session day after day in order to 
keep watch over a refractory President and be 
ready to interfere should he attempt to do mis- 
chief — as he would have been very apt to do with 
Congress out of the way. 

A fifth power reposed in the President is his 
war-power. This is in the strict line of executive 
duties. He is the Commander-in-Chief of the Army 
and Navy of the United States and of the Militia 
of the States when called into the Federal service. 
In time of war, this authority to direct all military 
operations is of enormous consequence. Yet there 
must be some head of affairs, and one man is bet- 
ter than four hundred when promptness and deci- 
sion of action are required. Congress, realizing 
this fact, has, at particular times, given to the 
President even additional authority. Such, for 
instance, was the authority temporarily given to 
him by Congress during our troubles with France, 
toward the close of the last century, to seize or 
expel from our country any alien citizen of France 
or any other alien whom he might think danger- 
ous to our peace. Such, again, is the general 
authority given to him by Congress, which still 
continues, to defend the rights of American citizen- 
ship abroad, by using any means, not amounting 
to acts of war, that he may think necessary and 
proper to obtain the release of any citizen unjustly 
deprived of his liberty by a foreign government. 
Such was the authority given to him by Congress, 
in 1887, to retaliate against the British North 
American dominions in case of any further inter- 
ference with our fishermen, by closing our ports 
to vessels of that country and cutting off certain 
commercial communication with it. Such was 
the authority conferred upon him by Congress 
to issue to private armed-vessels of the United 
States commissions or letters of marque and gen- 
eral reprisal against the vessels or other property 
of an enemy, as against the British Government 
and its subjects in the War of 1812. And such 
was the authority delegated to him by Congress 
to suspend the writ of habeas corpus during the 
late Civil War. Under discretionary or vindic- 
tive powers like these or others that might be cited 
it would be possible for a President to commit the 
most despotic acts. Even the Emancipation Proc- 
lamation, which gave freedom to the slaves, must be 
classed as an arbitrary deed. In its effects, it was 
one of the grandest acts in history ; and yet it was 




issued, and was so declared, as an act of " military 
necessity," under the authority of the President 
as Commander-in-Chief — he could scarcely have 
based it on any other ground. Tremendous as may 
be the war-power of the President, or the discre- 
tionary power temporarily delegated to him by 
Congress during time of danger, Congress may 
readily restrain its exercise. It may revoke all re- 
taliatory or similar authority given to him for tem- 
porary use, and the power reposed in him by the 
Constitution may be made to dwindle to a mere 
memory or fiction. For, with Congress rests the 
exclusive right to raise armies and navies and to 
control the public funds ; and without appropria- 
tions of money for supplies, or other legislative 
action by Congress, it would be impossible for the 
President to make use of any military forces, or, 
indeed, for any army or navy to exist. As Com- 
mander-in-Chief, he would thus be left with nothing 
to command. 

A sixth power, which belongs to the President 
in his executive capacity, is that of appointing 
ambassadors, other public ministers and consuls, 
judges of the Supreme Court, and all other officers 
of the United States whose appointments are not 
otherwise provided for in the Constitution and 
which may be established by law.* As the Presi- 
dent depends for the actual execution of the laws 
upon the officers and employes under him, those 
subordinates should be persons in whose ability 
and loyalty he can safely confide for the per- 
formance of the duties assigned to them either 
by statute or by his orders ; and in case of dis- 
honest or worthless subordinates he should have 
it within his power to secure in their stead, honest 
and competent men. But the Constitution does 
not give him unrestricted power to appoint, nor is 
it clear that he has absolute power to remove at 
his own pleasure. In the appointment of certain 
chief officers he must obtain the advice and con- 
sent of the Senate ; and while Congress may allow 
the President, or heads of Departments, or the 
courts, to appoint inferior officers without consult- 
ing the Senate, and while Congress has actually 
given that permission, still that permission maybe 
revoked and every appointment be made to undergo 
the criticism of the Senate. Were Congress to 
adopt this plan, the President could merely ap- 
point temporarily under his power to fill vacancies 
happening during the recess of the Senate. As to 
how far Congress may interfere, if at all, with re- 
movals by the President, or how far the President 
may make removals, if at all, without the permis- 

sion of Congress, the Constitution is silent; and 
the question is one of vital importance to the purity 
of the Government and the dignified administra- 
tion of the laws. For years, appointments and 
removals have been made on partisan grounds, 
under what is known as the " spoils " system ; 
until an election. for President has come to be 
dreaded by many decent people as merely a con- 
test to see who shall capture the thousands of 
offices — a disgraceful scramble for " place," rather 
than the calm and impressive selection of a Chief 
Magistrate to administer the Government for the 
good of the country, in accordance with some high 
rule of principle. A person who holds a public office 
holds a position of public trust and honor, and a 
person who enters the public service and faithfully 
performs the duties of his office is entitled to the 
confidence and esteem of the people whom he serves. 
Fidelity and merit should be the test of fitness, as 
well in public as in private positions of trust ; and 
an effort to regulate appointments and removals 
on this basis has resulted in the establishment by 
Congress of a board of three men, known as the 
Civil Service Commission, whose duties and work 
we will notice later on. At present, its operations 
extend only to minor offices ; the power of the 
President over the great bulk of lucrative offices 
remains unimpaired, and the vicious idea of 
" spoils" has not yet been banished from practical 

The provision of the Constitution, directing that 
the President shall receive ambassadors and other 
public ministers, clearly indicates him as the "or- 
gan of communication " with foreign governments, 
and as such he stands at the head of the Republic, 
equal in rank with monarchs or other chief magis- 
trates of the world, whether at the head of Re- 
publics, Kingdoms, or Empires. 

It can hardly be claimed that the powers of the 
President, thus briefly reviewed, are not sufficiently 
controlled by the Constitution, which assumes, of 
course, that the other branches of the Government 
and the people will do their duty. However wise or 
unwise may have been the plan by which the Presi- 
dent is made to act as a check upon, or as a part of, 
the legislative power of the Government, by con- 
ferring upon him the power to veto legislation, it 
must be remembered that this power, like the 
power to make treaties, to appoint subordinates, 
and to do other important acts, is under Constitu- 
tional restraint ; and Congress, as the repository of 
the supreme power of the Republic, may override 
vetoes and treaties, and establish laws by which 

With the simple appointment of Federal judges, the power of the President over them ceases; for, when appointed, they at once 
form part of the Judicial Department of the Government, holding their offices during good behavior under the protection of the Con- 
stitution, and are removable only by Congress by impeachment, or by being legislated out of office (in case of tribunals inferior to the 
Supreme Court), by the abolition of their courts. 


22 I 

the exercise of other powers may be kept within 
proper bounds. In his purely executive capacity 
the President is not formidable. He is required 
to lake care that the laws be faithfully executed ; 
and he is bound by oath to honestly execute his 
office, and, to the best of his ability, preserve, pro- 
tect, and defend the Constitution of the United 
States. He is given power to resist, to a certain de- 
gree, by his veto, the making of objectionable laws, 
and he may urge by recommendation the repeal 
of such as he may not deem good ; but such as the 
laws are, whether objectionable or not, he must see 
that they are unerringly carried out. Some of these 
laws confer upon him a certain discretion, giving 
him authority, rather than directing him, to do cer- 
tain things or to act in a certain manner, as 
occasion may occur ; but beyond these discretion- 
ary matters the laws are absolute commands. 
Under his oath, and as an honest officer, he must 
do one of two things — he must execute them with- 
out a murmur, or he must resign.* The same 
remark applies to every agent of administration 
under him. To allow the Executive Department 
to set up its own will in opposition to the express 
command of the Legislature, would subvert every 
principle of free government and lead to the iron 
despotism of autocracy or to the terrors of anarchy 
and chaos. 

In its official intercourse with the President each 
House of Congress treats him with a deference or 
courtesy due to him as one of the three independ- 
ent branches of the Government. For this reason, 
whenever either House of Congress calls upon him 
for information, the call is put in the form of a 
request, coupled with the discretionary words, 
" if not incompatible with the public interests." 
In this it differs noticeably from a call upon a head 
of department or subordinate officer. The latter is 
not a request ; it is a positive direction — the em- 
phatic order of a superior to an inferior. The vari- 
ous assistants who hold office under the President are 
not his servants or his henchmen, to obey him im- 
plicitly, and him alone. Their offices were created 

* A law of Congress provides : " The only evidence of a refusal 
to accept, or of the resignation of the office of President or Vice 
President, shall be an instrument in writing, declaring the same, 
and subscribed by the person refusing to accept, or resigning, as 
the case may be, and delivered into the office of the Secretary of 

t This is under the Sixth Article of the Constitution. The law of 
Congress requires that every person elected or appointed to any office 
of honor or trust, either in the civil, military, or naval service, ex- 
cept the President, shall, before entering upon the duties of such 
office, and before being entitled to any part of the salary, or other 

by Congress as aids to the Executive ; their duties 
are, or may be, prescribed by Congress ; and they 
must obey the commands of Congress, so far as 
those commands are law, regardless of any orders 
to the contrary issued by the President. They are 
the servants of the people — being bound, like the 
President himself, by oath f — and it is the duty of 
the representatives of the people in Congress to 
see that they do not neglect their trusts. If they 
fail to perform a plain ministerial duty charged 
upon them by law, the courts, as the third inde- 
pendent branch of the Government, may order 
them to perform it. If they deliberately ignore or 
violate the law, they do so at their peril. Over the 
conduct of all civil officers of the Government, the 
President included, Congress is required to exercise 
a watch ; and in case of any defiance or transgres- 
sion of the law, it is its duty to call the offending 
officer before its bar, under the process of im- 
peachment, and remove him from his trust, with 
odium and disgrace, in the name of the people of 
the United States. 

And so, after all, the President, while directly 
responsible to the people for the wise exercise of his 
discretionary powers or prerogatives, is not above 
the law. There may be ways in which he can 
abuse his power ; but the Constitution has pro- 
vided ample means by which such abuse may be 
corrected and punished. One President has been 
impeached and narrowly escaped conviction; 
others have been vigorously rebuked by formal 
resolutions of censure; and if, in the many spirited 
tilts between the Executive and Congress, we find 
the President at times improperly in the ascend- 
ant, or usurping unconstitutional powers, we may 
fairly charge it to the personal incapacity or cow- 
ardice of the House or Senate. So long as Con- 
gress shall do its duty, the Government is safe 
from harm through the powers of the Executive ; 
and so long as the people shall do their duty in 
the choice of able and patriotic representatives, 
Congress may be reasonably depended upon to 
do its own. 

emoluments thereof, take and subscribe an oath of allegiance. This 
oath is in two forms. By the " iron-clad " oath the officer swears 
that he has never borne arms against the United States, etc., in ad- 
dition to swearing that he will support and defend the Constitution, 
and bear true allegiance to the same, and well and faithfully dis- 
charge the duties of his office. The " modified " oath omits all 
reference to past loyalty, in order to adapt it to cases of partici- 
pants in the late rebellion. Further and special oaths are provided 
for certain officers, the language of which varies with the duties of 
the office. The form of oath required of the President is prescribed 
by the Constitution. 

(A Dialogue to Introduce the Christmas-tree.) 

By Eudora S. Bumstead. 

Santa Claus. A man with long white hair and beard, coat and cap of fur. 

-,, , ,, . 1ST Girl. ) Dressed as waiting-maids, in dark frocks 
uniforms, with plumed hats, _ .-, f , . , . ?.. ^ 

1 2D Girl. > and stockings, white aprons and caps; 

3D GIRL. } carrying trays. 

The third boy and the third girl should be the smallest of the company, and the boy should be trained to speak in 

a very deliberate and emphatic manner, with an air of great importance. 

Scene. — A small stage, with a Christmas-tree curtained off, L. Stage curtain rises, discovering the six children 
grouped in a semicircle, fronting audience. Third boy at right, and third girl at left of the others. 

1 st Boy. ) y, , . c 

R f Dressedin fancyunn 

n ' ( sashes, and swords. 

1ST Boy. This day has lasted 'most a week, 3D Boy. 

I honestly believe. 
1ST Girl. I think so too. But now, at last, 

It 's really Christmas Eve. 

2D Boy. And we are here to guard the tree 3D Girl. 

Till good Kriss Kringle comes. 
2D Girl. And we are here to wait on him, 

And pass the sugar-plums. 

I 'spect by now the tree is full — 

Every tiny shoot. 
I wish that Santa Claus were here,- 

We 'd — pick — the fruit. 

What does make him stay so long? 

It must be getting late. 
Come, let 's sing our Planting Song 

While we have to wait. 



(Au. Sing. Air: "Johnny Comes Marching Home.") 
We 've planted a beautiful Christmas-tree, 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
Its branches are strong as strong can be, 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
But won't they bend with the fruitage fair 
That good St. Nicholas makes them bear, 
And we '11 all be so glad that we planted the 

Our fathers and mothers are here to-night, 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
They 've come to see the wonderful sight, 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
We hope St. Nicholas won't forget. 
Some fruit for them on the tree we 've set ; 
And we '11 all be so glad that we planted the 

Christmas-tree ! 

There 's lovely fruit in summer and fall, 
But the Christmas crop is the best of all ; 
And we '11 all be so glad that we planted the 
Christmas-tree ! 

ist Girl. 

ist Boy. 

There 's the tree we planted, 
Curtained out of sight. 

Let us take a peep and see 
If everything is right. 

(All tip-toe L. and peep cautiously behind the curtain.) 

2D Girl. 

;d Boy. 

3D Girl. 
2D Boy. 

It 's rather dark, but, seems to me, 
There 's nothing to be seen. 

Nothing on the Christmas-tree? 
What — can it — mean ! 

Where are the nuts and candies ? 
I can't see a crumb ! 

We '11 serve St. Nicholas all we can, 

Hurrah ! Hurrah! 
And he shall be our nursery-man, 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 

ist Girl. 
Where 's Mr. Santa Claus? 

Don't believe he '11 come ! 

2D Girl. 
What if he were frozen in, 
Away up there ? 

3D Boy. 
Or what if he were eaten 
By a great — big — bear ! 

3D Girl. 
Or what if all his helpers 
Were gone upon a strike ! 

3D Boy. 
I tell you that 's a prospect 
That I — don't — like! 

ist Boy. 
Come, let 's go and find him. 
Don't you think we might ? 

ist Girl. 
It 's cold and dark outside, boys ; 
Don't you know it 's night? 

2D Boy. 
I tell you, we are soldiers, 
Whom nothing ever scares. 

3D Boy. 
Wish we were with Santa Claus — 
We 'd — kill — the bears ! 

2D Girl. I wonder if his sleigh is caught 
With snow-drifts all about ? 

3D Boy. I wish that we could find him; 
We 'd — dig — him out ! 




3D GlRL. Perhaps he has some reindeers 
That are not the fleetest sort. 

1ST Boy. I wish we were behind 'em : 
We 'd have good sport. 

3D Boy. I tell yon, we are soldiers 

Whom nothing ever scares ; 
If we could find our Santa Claus, 
We 'd — kill — the bears ! 

3D Girl. I 'm 'fraid you boys are braggarts. 
But did you ever know 
What happened at a Christmas-tree 
A long time ago ? 

3D Boy. Oh, no ! Let 's have the story ! 
ist Girl. We '11 all be very still. 

1ST Boy. Tell us all about it, now. 
3D Girl. Well, then, I will. 

Once there were three little boys. 

They quarreled and they fought 
Over all the pretty presents 

That Santa Claus had brought. 
And they never gave the smallest bit 

Of anything they had 
To any poorer little boy, 

To try to make him glad. 

At last they set a Christmas-tree, 

For their three selves alone. 
They meant that every speck of fruit 

Should be their very own. 
And when they lit the candles 

They saw that great big tree 
Was just as full of Christmas fruit 

As ever it could be. 

But just when they were ready 

To gather all those things, 
They heard the glass a-breaking 

And a sudden rush of wings ; 
And right in through the window 

Flew — what do you suppose? 
You 'd never guess in all the world — 

'T was three black crows ! — 
Big, black crows ! 

They perched around the Christmas-tree 
And there was no more joy — 

With such a solemn, blaming look 
They looked at every boy. 

And those three boys just looked at them, 

And did n't dare to stir, 
Till all at once they flapped their wings — 

Buzz! — Whizz! — Whir! 
And right in sight of all those boys 

They changed — as quick as scat ! 
In place of every solemn crow 

Was a big black cat ! 

A fierce black cat ! 

They sat around the Christmas-tree 

And there was no more joy ; 
With such a "scareful," hungry look 

They gazed at every boy. 
Those boys just shook and trembled, 

And feared that they would- fall, 
For they knew they 'd all be eaten 

If the cats were not so small. 
Then, all at once, so sly and still, 

It happened unawares, 
Those dreadful cats had changed their 

To three black bears ! 

Big black BEARS ! 

(All look horrified. Noise behind the curtain near 
Christmas-tree. ) 

All the Boys. What 's that ? 
All the Girls. Shoo ! Scat ! 

(During next speeches all retreat slowly backward to 
farthest corner.) 

ist Girl. What can be in there ? 
3D Boy. Oh, dear! I 'm most afraid 

It might be a bear ! 

2D Girl. Look ! look ! There 's something 

ist Boy. 

2D Boy. 

I see some fur ! It 's gray ! 
I '11 watch this corner ; 
He sha'n't get away ! 

Just let him come out boldly, 
And fight us. if he dare ! 
3D Boy (faintly, pressing close to the wall). 

Don't be frightened, any one ; 
We '11— kill —the bear! 

(Enter Santa Claus, L. Children gaze in astonish- 
ment till he speaks, then surround and cling to him.) 

Santa Claus. 

Ho ! Hullo! my little folks! 

Looking out for bears? 
'T is only one of Santa's jokes, 

To catch you unawares. 

i88 9 .] 



Your love for what is true 

and right ; 
Your tender heart and 

smile so bright ; 
Your own dear self, with 
us to-night ; 
Santa Claus, dear Santa 

We '11 think about you all 

the year, 
Santa Claus, dear Santa 

And often wish that you 

were here, 
Santa Claus, dear Santa 

We '11 try our best to be 

like you, 
In all our duties, kind and 

true ; 
As glad to share with 

others, too, 
Santa Claus, dear Santa 


But now you 've turned 
the joke on me ; 
You 've caught me, I '11 
be bound ! 
Well, you shall help me 
strip the tree, 
Andpass the fruit around. 

3D Boy. 

But first we 'Using a little 
And every word is true ; 

(Takes Santa Claus's hand 
and lays his cheek against it.) 

Dear Mr. Santa Claus, 
We '11 — sing — for you. 

(All sing. Air: " Maryland, 
my Maryland.") 

We love you more than 
we can sing, 
Santa Claus, dear Santa 
And not alone for what 
you bring, 
Santa Claus, dear Santa 

Vol. XVI. -15. 



Santa Claus. 

Now may joy and love and cheer 

Brighten all you see ! 
One good look, my children dear. 

Here 's your Christmas-tree ! 

(Instrumental music. Santa Claus withdraws the 
curtain from before the tree. Allow sufficient time for 
all to enjoy the sight of the ornamented tree, and then 
let the six children distribute the gifts as Santa Claus 
takes them from the tree. ) 


Words dy Mary J. Jacques. 
Con inoio. 


Music by T. C. H. 

-m- ■ V * 



I. Ro - ley - po - ley, roll - ing pin, Dredge your board and then be - gin, 





L_^ : 





^ 3"~ 



^ —1 F^ = =± 

= r-j^- 









Round your crust and roll it thin, Ro - ley - po - ley, roll - ing pin! 


wr= % a: r^zrss 




a g-s — e=^ £ 


- J 

Roley-poley, rolling pin, 
Pumpkin pie-crust in a tin, 
Edged with many an out and in, 
Roley-poley, rolling pin ! 

Roley-poley, rolling pin, 
Tarts and cookies minikin, 
Turnovers your tooth to win, 
Roley-poley, rolling pin ! 


Roley-poley, rolling pin, 
Dumplings with a dimpled chin, 
Crinkled crullers crisp within, 
Roley-poley, rolling pin! 

^g>y Jolm H. eJewett. 



I. The Home of the Bunnys. 

The home of the Bunny family was once a 
sunny hillside, overrun with wild-rose bushes and 
berry-vines, with a little grove of white birches, 
pines, and other trees, on the north side, to shelter 
it from the cold winds of winter. 

The place had no name of its own until the 
Bunnys and their neighbors found it out, and 
came there to live. 

After that, it became much like any other thick- 
ly settled neighborhood, where all the families had 
children and all the children ran wild, and so they 
called it " Runwild Terrace." 

This was a long time ago, when all the wild 
creatures talked with each other, and behaved 
very much as people do nowadays, and were for 

the most part 
kind and friendly 
to each other. 

Their wisest and 
best teachers used 
to tell them, as 
ours tell us now, 
that they all be- 
longed to one great 
family, and should 
live in peace like 
good brothers and 

I am afraid, how- 
ever, the}' some- 
times forgot the 
relationship, just 


as we do when we are proud or greedy 
natured, and were sorry for it afterward. 

The Bunnys of Runwild Terrace were very much 
like all the rest — plain, sensible, and well-bred folks. 

The father and mother tried to set a good ex- 
ample by being quiet and neighborly, and because 
they were always kind to the poor and sick, they 
were called " Deacon Bunny " and " Mother 
Bunny " by their friends and neighbors. 

The Bunny children were named Bunnyboy, who 
was the eldest, Browny, his brother, and their sis- 
ters, Pinkeyes and Cuddledown ; and their parents 
were anxious that the children should grow up to 
be healthy, honest, truthful, and good-natured. 

They were a happy family, fond of each other, 
and of their cousin Jack, who lived with them. 

One of Cousin 
Jack's legs was 
shorter than the 
other, and he had 
to use a pair of 
crutches to help 
him walk or hop 
about, but he was 
very nimble on his 
" wooden legs," as 
he called them, and 
could beat most of 
the bunnies in a race 
on level ground. 

He had been lame 
so long, and almost 
every one was so kind 
tohim because hewas 
a cripple, that he had 
got used to limping 


' Copyright, 1888, by John H. Jewett. All rights reserved. 





about, and did not mind being called "Lame Jack," 
by some of the thoughtless neighbors. 

The Bunny family, however, always called him 
" Cousin Jack," which was a great deal better 
and kinder, because no one really likes to be re- 
minded of a misfortune, or to wear a nickname, 
like a label on a bottle of medicine. 

Cousin Jack was a jolly, good-natured fellow, 
and the bunnies all liked him because he was so 
friendly and cheerful, and willing to make the best 
of everything that happened to go wrong. 

If it rained and spoiled the croquet fun, or upset 
the plans for a picnic, Cousin Jack would say, 
" Well, well; I don't think it is going to be much 
of a flood ; let us have a little home-made sunshine 
indoors until the shower is over." 

Then he would help them make a boat, or a 
kite, and mend the broken toys, or tell them 
stories, until they would forget all about the disap- 
pointment, and say that a day with him was almost 
as good fun as a picnic. 

Besides a pleasant home and many kind friends, 




these fortunate bunnies had no end of beautiful 
books, pretty toys, and games, and best of all, a 
loving, patient mother, to watch over them and 
care for them as only a mother can. 

With so many things in their lives to help them 
to be good, they had no excuse for not growing up 
to be a comfort to the family and a credit to the 
neighborhood, and I think they did. 


At any rate, they had lots of fun, and these 
stories about them are told to show other little 
folks how the bunnies behaved, and what hap- 
pened to them when they were good or naughty. 

II. The bunnies at Play. 

Ever since Bunnyboy and Browny were old 
enough to dig in the dirt, they had made a little 
flower-garden every year, in a sunny spot on the 
south side of the house. 

Pinkeyes used to watch her brothers taking care 
of the flower-beds, and soon learned to love the 
pretty grasses and leaves and buds and the smell 

of the freshly spaded earth, and one day she said 
she would like to have a flower-bed of her own. 

It was almost winter, however, before she 
thought of it, and remembered that it takes time 
for plants to grow and blossom, and that the gar- 
dens in the north where she lived were covered 
with snow and ice in the winter. 

When Pinkeyes wanted anything she wanted it 
in a hurry, and so she asked 
her father what flowers came 
earliest after the snow was 

He told her that of all the 
wild flowers, the fragrant 
pink and white arbutus was 
first to peep out from under 
the dead leaves and grass, to 
see if the spring had come. 
Sometimes the buds were 
in such a hurry to get a 
breath of the mild spring 
air, and a glimpse of the 
sunshine, that a tardy snow- 
storm caught them with 
their little noses uncovered, 
and gave them a taste of 
snow-broth and ice, without 
cream, that made them 
chilly until the warm south 
winds and the sun had 
driven the snow away. 

Pinkeyes said she wanted 
a whole garden of arbutus, 
but her father told her that 
this strange, shy wildling 
did not like gardens, but 
preferred to stay out in the 
fields, where it could have 
a whole hillside tangle or 
pasture to ramble in, and 
plenty of thick grass and 
leaves to hide under when 
winter came again. 
When her father saw how disappointed she was, 
he told her if she would try to be good-natured and 
patient when things went wrong, they would get 
some crocus bulbs and put them in the ground be- 
fore the frosts came, and in the spring she would 
have a whole bed of white and yellow and purple 
crocuses, which were earlier even than the arbutus, 
if properly cared for. 

Ever so many times in the winter, when the 
children were enjoying the snow and ice, Pinkeyes 
wondered what her crocus bulbs were doing down 
under the ground, and if they would know when 
it was spring and time to come up. 

After the snow was gone she watched every day 


? 3i 

for their coming, and sure enough, one morning 
there were little rough places on the crocus bed, 
and the next day she found a row of delicate green 
shoots and tiny buds trying to push themselves up 
out of the ground. 

Every day they grew bigger and prettier, and 

more of them 
came up, until 
there were 
enough to spare 
some of each 
color for a bou- 
quet, without 
spoiling the 

pretty picture 
they made out 
of doors, where 
everybody who 
came that way 
could see and en- 
joy the flowers, 
and be sure that 
spring had real- 
ly come. 

The very first 
handful she picked was put into a bowl of water, and 
looked very fresh and dainty on the breakfast-table. 
Pinkeyes felt quite proud of her first crocus blos- 
soms, and almost cried when her mother said that 
it would be a kind thing to do, to take them over to 
neighbor Woodchuck, whose children were sick, 
and who had no crocus bed on their lawn to 
look at while they had to stay in the house 
to get well. 

Pinkeyes thought it would be a good ex- 
cuse for not doing so, to say she did not 
know the way ; for she had never been so far 
away from home alone ; but her father said 
he was going over that way and would take 
her with him, if she wished to carry the 
flowers to the tired mother and the sick chil- 
dren ; and so they started off with the crocuses 
carefully wrapped in soft damp cotton to 
keep them fresh. 

When Pinkeyes handed the flowers to 
Mrs. Woodchuck, she said : " Here is the 
first bunch of blossoms we have picked from 
my crocus bed, and my mother thought that 
you would like to have some to brighten 
the room while the children are sick, and 
we have plenty more at home." 

The family were all delighted with the 
flowers and the kind attention, for they had not seen 
anything so bright and cheery for a long time, and 
they all thanked Pinkeyes so heartily that she felt 
ashamed to remember how unwilling she had been 
at first to give the crocuses away. 

When she came home she told her mother about 
the call, and how pleased they were with the sim- 
ple gift ; and her mother asked her how many 
crocuses she had left in the bed, and she said, 
" More than twenty." Then her mother asked 
how many she had given away, and she said, 
" Only six," and Pinkeyes began to see what her 
mother meant, and that a little given away made 
one happier than a great deal kept all to one's self. 

Then Pinkeyes went out and looked at those 
left growing in the bed, and whispered softly to 
them. " Now I know what flowers are made for." 
And all the little buds looked up at her as if to say, 
"Tell us, if you know"; and so she whispered 
again the answer, " To teach selfish folks to be 
kind and generous, and to make sick folks glad." 

Every day new buds opened, and Pinkeyes had 
a fresh bouquet each morning, and also enough 
to give away, until the other flower beds which 
her brothers had planted began to bear blossoms 
for the summer. 

Browny took more interest in the flower garden 
than Bunnyboy, who was older and liked to play cir- 
cus, and croquet, and to watch base-ball games ; and 
so Browny began to take care of the flower-beds 

He liked to plant new seeds and watch them 
come up, and wait for the buds to open, but the 
hardest part of the work was to keep the neigh- 
bor's hens away from the lawn. 

These hens seemed to think there was no place 
like a freshly made flower bed to scratch holes 
to roll in ; and when no one was looking they 
would walk right out of a large open corn-field, 
where there was more loose earth than they could 



possibly use, and begin to tear that flower garden 
to pieces. 

One old yellow hen, that was lazy and clumsy 
about everything else, would work herself tired, 

every time she could get in there, trying to bury 
herself in the soft loam of the garden. 

Browny's father. Deacon Bunny, told Browny 
he might scare the hens away as often as they 
came, but must not hurt them with clubs or stones, 
because they belonged to their good neighbor 

Browny thought it was strange that a good 
neighbor should keep such a mischievous hen as 
Old Yellow ; but the Deacon said that 
people who kept hens in a crowded 
neighborhood, and let them run at 
large, usually cared more about fresh 
eggs and other things to eat than for 
flowers, and as a rule, such people did 
not lie awake at night thinking about 
the trouble their hens gave other folks. 

One day, when Browny was com- 
plaining about the yellow hen, Bunny- 
boy came rushing in to ask his 
father to get a croquet set, and 
said their lawn was just the place 
for a good croquet ground. 

The Deacon said at once that he thought it 
would be a good place, and if the neighbors' chil- 
dren would all turn out and enjoy the game with 
them, the plan Bunnyboy suggested might help to 
rid them of the daily hen-convention on the lawn, 
and save the flower beds. The next day he 
brought the croquet set. 

When the bunnies opened their new croquet 
box, they found four mallets and four balls, and 
nine arches and two stakes, all painted and striped 
with red, white, blue and yellow, to match each 

The first thing they did was to begin quarreling 
lustily about who should have the first choice, 
for each of the players chanced to prefer the blue 
ball and mallet. 

When the Deacon heard the loud talking on the 
lawn, he came out, shut up the box and said the 
croquet exercises would not begin until they could 
behave themselves, and settle the question of the 
first choice like well-bred children, without any 
more wrangling. 






2 S3 

Bunnyboy happened to remember that he was 
the oldest, and said the best way was to give the 
youngest the first choice and so on. The Deacon 
said that was all right, and that they were all old 


enough to learn how much happier it makes every 
one feel to be yielding and generous, even in little 
things, than to be selfish and try to get your own 
way in everything. 

So they all agreed, and each bunny took a 
mallet and began a game, and they had rare fun 
knocking the balls about, trying to drive them 
through the arches without pushing them through, 
which was not fair play. 

By and by Chivy Woodchuck and his brother 
Chub heard the clatter, and came over to see the 
fun, and wanted to play with them. 

Then came the question, who should play, and 
who should not, for all six could not play with but 
four mallets. Of course the visitors should have 
first place, and two of the Bunnys must give up 
their mallets and balls. 

Bunnyboy tried to settle it by asking Pinkeyes 
and Cuddledown to go into the kitchen and tease 
the cook for some ginger cakes, while the others 
played a game. They liked this plan, and so the 
boys each had a mallet and the game went on 
nicely, until Chivy Woodchuck knocked the red 
ball into the muddy gutter and the other side 

refused to go and get it. Then another dispute 

Bunnyboy thought Chivy ought to get the ball, 
and Chivy said Bunnyboy ought to get it himself; 
and so, instead of keeping good natured, they 
stood sulking and scolding until the other chil- 
dren came back. 

When Cuddledown heard the talking, she went 
and picked up the muddy ball, wiped it on her 
dress, and brought it back to the lawn, just as the 
Deacon came out to see what the new quarrel was 

Bunnyboy and Chivy were so ashamed of having 
made such a fuss about doing a little thing that 
the youngest bunny could do in a minute without 
being asked, that they begged each other's par- 
don, and went on with the game. 

Deacon Bunny told Cuddledown that she was a 
good child to get the ball and stop the dispute, 
and that she had begun early to be a little peace- 
maker ; but the next time she had a muddy ball 
to clean she should wipe it on the grass instead of 
her dress, because it was easier for the rain to 
wash the grass than for busy mothers to keep 
their children clean and tidy. 

All the summer they had jolly times with the 
croquet, but the old yellow hen did not like 


having so many little folk around, and had to 
hunt up a new place to scratch holes to roll her- 
self in. 

But Browny had both a flower and a vegetable 
garden next year, and the old yellow hen never 
troubled him any more. 

t To be continued. ) 





A Happy New Year to you, my friends ! And 
it will be a Happy New Year if we all can keep our 
resolve to make and keep good resolutions. But 
the trouble is, good resolutions are like nine-pins. 
They too often are set up in impressive moments 
only to be knocked down when the fun begins. > 

Now, by way of precaution, let us slowly repeat 
together these lines : 

Suppose we think little about number one ; 
Suppose we all help some one else to have fun ; 
Suppose we ne'er speak of the faults of a friend ; 
Suppose we are ready our own to amend ; 
Suppose we laugh with, and not at, other folk. 
And never hurt any one "just for the joke"; 
Suppose we hide trouble, and show only cheer — 
How sure we shall be of a Happy New Year! 


OUR friend A. R. Wells tells me he has had a 
bad dream, and it all came from reading a life of 
Sir Isaac Newton after eating a hearty supper 
of cream and baked apples. How can people do 
such things ! Hear him : 

I dreamt the whole thing out as I was sleeping; 

May I confide in you ? 
I spend my days in wailing and in weeping 

For fear my dream come true. 
I thought that with no kindly word of warning, 

No hint of coming trouble, 
Some cause mysterious one awful morning 

Made gravitation double. 
The branches snapped from all the trees around me, 

A fierce, terrific sound. 
I fain would run away. Alas ! I found me 

Fast fixed upon the ground. 
The birds fell down like feathered stones from 
heaven ; , 

The sky was all bereft. 
Ten houses were before ; behind me, seven ; 

And not a house was left. 
It rained, and every little drop down rushing 

Cut like a leaden ball. 
The air grew denser; pressing, strangling, crushing. 

I tottered to my fall, 
And then awoke from out my fearful sleeping. 

And now, what shall we do ? 
1 spend my days in wailing and in weeping. 

Might not my dream come true ? 


SEVERAL bright boys and girls have sent me 
good answers to J. L.'s question about the egg, 
which was put to you in September last. But I 
hardly think it is worth while to tell you, my hun- 
dred thousand other hearers, what Harry L. D., 
A. E. Orr, George S., Mary D. F., and the rest 
say. You all may think the matter out for your- 
selves, you know. 


New York. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : You ask us if we can add some 
words to the dear Little School-ma'am's list of interesting derivations 
of popular words, so I have found a few for you. 

Money is from the temple of Juno Moneta, in which money was 
first coined by the ancients. 

Pecuniary is from pecus, a flock; flocks and herds of animals 
being originally equivalent to money or things constituting wealth. 

Cash, in commerce, signifies ready money, or actual coin paid on 
the instant, and it comes from the French word caisse, a coffer or 
chest in which money is kept. 

Groat was a name given to silver pieces equal to four pennies in 
value, coined by Edward III. The word (groat) is a corruption of 
grosses, or great pieces, in contradistinction to the small coin or 

Dollar has a curious derivation. The first step back makes it 
thaler, then " thai," a valley ; but thai originally meant a deal or 
division ; so the gold or silver was dealt or divided into pieces worth 
a thaler, the German form, or dollar, the American. 

Of course our word cent is from centum, a hundred, for the cent 
is a hundredth part of a dollar. 

But I must close this very monetary letter. 

Your admiring reader, Laura G. I. . 


I HAVE just heard a pretty newspaper story of a 
young lady of New York who delights in pet 
humming-birds. They build their nests, the story 
says, in the lace curtains, and have raised little 
families in the parlor. There ar.e plants for them 
to fly about in, and every day the florist sends a 
basket of flowers, from which the pretty pets may 
extract the honey. They are like little rainbows 
flying about the room, and they light on the head 
of their dainty mistress with perfect freedom. 

This reminds me of a true account that has been 
sent to my pulpit by a young girl who surely has a 
gentle heart. You shall have the story in her own 
words. She calls it 


His name was " Dot," and he was the tiniest 

mite, not larger than a good-sized bumble-bee. 

I found him one morning last summer after a 




severe windstorm, lying helpless, with one of li is 
gauzy wings injured in such a way that he could 
not use it for flying. He was not at all frightened 
when I approached and picked him up, but looked 
appealingly at me out of his very small, black 
eyes. I could not but admire the elegance of his 
dress, showing green and gold with a glowing 
patch of red on his breast, while his feathers were 
perfumed with the scent of many flowers. 

Naturally, so small a bird did not require a 
mansion to live in. Indeed, "Dot" tried to tell 
me, in the way birds have of talking, that a cozy 
abode would meet with his approval. 1 found that 
a paste-board box would answer the purpose, and 
when I had strewn the bottom with sweet-smelling 
leaves, and put a twig across it, in the way of fur- 
niture, <; Dot " was installed in his new home. 

He would rest quietly on his perch, dreaming, 
as I imagined, of the days that were gone, of the 
blue sky, the sweet June breeze, until, recollection 
proving too strong, he would try to use his wings. 
Then, alas! instead of bearing him up as they 
were wont to do, they could give him no support, 
but left him to fall to the floor of his house, there 
to lie patiently waiting for some one to replace 
him in an upright position. Every morning 
" Dot " and I made a tour of the garden, his 
specks of feet resting confidently on my enormous 
finger. We visited every blossom in turn, and he 
took a little honey from each. Many a time I 
thought I had lost him, he went so deep down into 
the huge morning-glories. When the season of 
flowers was over, I made a mixture of sugar and 
water to take the place of his natural food. He 

did not appear to distinguish any lack in the flavor 
of this make-believe honey ; and when I let a drop 
of it form on the end of my finger, he was always 
ready to run out his long tongue (which looked 
like a thread of silver) and sip it off. He seemed 
to thrive on this artificial diet, and would no doubt 
be living now had I not one fatal day placed the 
dish containing it too near him. I left him mus- 
ing in his quiet way over past delights, but re- 
turned to find his body floating on this sticky sea, 
with his dear little feathers in sad disarray. 

Poor " Dot ! " His trials were over, and I con- 
soled myself by fancying that he was away in the 
humming-birds' heaven, happy in a garden of 
flowers, of which we have never seen the like. 

So much for dear, bright, little Dot. Now, while 
we are on the subject of birds, you may hear this : 


"Sunset Height," Madison, N. J. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : I remember reading in St. Nich- 
olas, not long ago, of a robin stealing lace for its nest. Here is 
something which I think surpasses that story as an instance ot 

We were marking our tennis-court, and left the ball of cord, partly 
unwound, out on the grass. 

The next morning I observed one of our maple-trees gracefully 
festooned with white cord, the whole ball being unwound and twined 
in and out among the branches, while only a very little helped to 
build the nest of a brown thrush. The birds could not break the 
cord, so they had carried the entire ball quite a distance, to their 
nest, just for the sake of about a yard. 

They must have worked very hard, for the cord was wet, making 
it much heavier, and I think they displayed a great deal of patience 
and perseverance. Your wise, instructive sermons must have 
reached them, and been iegarded with faithful attention. 

With love to your excellent congregation, I am, yours, very sin- 
cerely, Josephine Mulford. 

) ©m- appetite, **m, 
oi-keiltla-®ia : b©iTa! 




We reproduce on this page a copy of the fine portrait of Dr. J. G. 
Holland which, purely by accident, was described in the paper on 
Wood-Carving in our November number as having been carved in 
wood by Miss Allegra Eggleston " after a relief by Mr. St. Gau- 
dens." The phrase quoted was an error, and one for which the au- 
thor of that paper is in no way responsible. In a letter calling 
attention to the mistake, Dr. Edward Eggleston says : " The panel 

of Dr. Holland is truly and originally my daughter's work from 
the drawing to the end. Her kind friend, Mr. St. Gaudens, never 
once touched the clay, I believe." 

This letter was leceived too late for us to make the required cor- 
rection in our December number, but we gladly make it now, adding 
our earnest expression of regret for the mistake, and our sincere 
apologies to the gifted young artist. 


Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little bny eleven years old, and live 
in Utica, N. Y. We have been in Europe more than a year, but I 
have not been alone, for I have found my dear friend, the St. 
Nicholas in all the cities we have visited — in Rome, Florence, 
Geneva, Paris, and the other principal cities we have been in. I 
meant to have written to you from Holland in July, but saw in the 
St. Nicholas, that you did not receive letters until October, so I 
postponed it until now. I am very much interested in Holland, be- 
cause, my papa says, our forefathers came from the north of Hol- 
land. We visited Hoorn, Alkmar, and Egmont, the locality from 
which our ancestors came. We saw the ruins of the old castle of 
Egmont, which used to rule over all the country about there, and 
which was burned by the Spaniards, in the fifteenth century. The 

only tiling now left is a chimney, on which the storks always build 
their nests. In a house near by, there is a picture of this castle, as 
it used to be. Holland is a very flat country, and they do not have 
fences, as we do, to divide one field from another, but have ditches 
with water in them ; and when they put their cattle in a field, to pre- 
vent the horses and cows from jumping over the ditch, they load 
their forward feet with weights, and they jump into the ditch instead 
of over it, and do not try it again. These ditches are supplied 
with water by immense windmills, whose great arms are seen turn- 
ing around nearly all the time, and in all parts of Holland. Some of 
them are very old, having dates on them of two hundred years ago. 
They are very useful, for they not only pump water, but grind gram 
and saw logs. Many of the peasants about Hoorn are rich. Itis 
here that they make the Edam cheese. I attended one of their fairs 



for the sale of it. The farmers brought the cheese into Hoorn, the 
day before the sale, in nicely carved and ornamented wagons. They 
do not have thills to prevent the wagon running on the horse, but they 
have a short tongue curled upward : the driver sits near this, and 
when the wagon would run against the hurse, he keeps it back with 
his foot by pressing upon the horse's flank. At the sale, which took 
place in one of the public squares of Hoorn, each piled his cheeses in 
square piles, as cannon-balls are piled at the Navy Yard, and when 
the merchant made the farmer an offer, they began to slap hands 
with one another, both naming prices nearer and nearer alike until 
they agreed. At Scheveningcn, once a poor fishing village, but now 
the most fashionable watering-place in Holland, with large beautiful 
hotels, like those at Manhattan Beach, there is fine bathing. They 
do not have bathing-houses here, as we do, but large wagons which 
they draw to the water's edge. The fisherwomen of Scheveningen 
are peculiar; they wear a very odd head-dress made of gold, silver, 
or copper. It covers the entire back and sides of the head, and in 
front of the ears a curled wire sticks out, upon which they hang ear- 
rings. Another peculiarity of their dress is the number of skirts they 
wear. It is said to be a mark of their prosperity ; the richer they are 
the more skirts they wear. They are generally tall and straight, and 
when they move along with their noisy sabots, they look like the 
penny wooden dolls every child has in the Noah's Arks. They are 
kind-hearted but very poor, because the fishing, upon which they 
depend, is not good now. 

Yours sincerely, Veddie B . 

New York City. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Among the many curious things I brought 
with me from Europe last year, was something which has given my 
child-friends here not a little amusement. It was a pair of baby 
shoes. I bought them in that city in Holland with the unpro- 
nounceable name — Scheveningen. 

Poor little Dutch babies ! Instead of having their little toes tucked 
away in soft woolly shoes or in slippers made of fine leather, these 
little children begin to walk in wooden shoes, The pair I have is 
one of the smallest sizes, yet they measure eight inches from the 
heel to the toe ! 

We passed a house in Scheveningen, outside the door of which 
six or seven pairs of these shoes were peacefully reposing. They 
were of all sizes, from Grandpa's to Baby's ; for in many places, you 
must know, the Dutch wear these shoes only out of doors, and drop 
them on entering the house. We wanted to buy several pairs, and 
did n't know where to go for them. So we stopped some little chil- 
dren, and by pointing to their shoes, made them understand that we 
wanted to know where they bought them. 

They led us to — a grocery store ! Here, on one side, were piled 
stacks upon stacks of wooden shoes. Some of them were very large. 

The Dutchmen make them in their idle hours, by scooping out the 
middle of soft wood, and bringing the front up to a sharp ridge. 
Some of them are even carved and decorated. 

One would think these shoes would not wear out as soon as ours, 
but they do, and much more quickly. A boy can kick his heels and 
toes out in less than no time. But then they cost very little. 

A small pair can be bought for ten Dutch cents, or about six cents 
of our money, while a large pair costs from fifteen cents up. Think 
of buying a pair of shoes for fifteen cents ! 

After buying our shoes, or klonipcn, as the Dutch call them, we 
were obliged to carry them around with us, hanging from our arms 
by a string. The children of Scheveningen stopped to look at us, 
pointed to the shoes, and thought it a great joke. 

On returning to the Hague, we got into a coupe with several Dutch 
women. We soon found out that they, too, were laughing at us. 
They were very much amused when we told them we were going to 
take the shoes to America with us. 

I sometimes watched the boys and girls in Rotterdam, to see if 
their heavy, awkward-looking shoes never fell off, especially when 
they went up and down stairs; but I never once saw such a thing 
happen. Elizabeth Jarrett. 

Andover, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have read "Little Lord Fauntleroy" 
three times, and like it very much. I live near Boston, and went to 
see the play with my papa. 1 did not like it so well as the story. 
They left out the dinner party, and Little Lord Fauntleroy did n't 
sit on a cracker-barrel, and did n't ride on the pony, and there 
was n't any dog. Mr. Hobbs was all right. 
I am ten years old and never saw a play before. 

Yours, truly, Robert Morrill McC . 

Tokio, Japan. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl living in Japan. I was 
born here, and though I have never been anywhere else, I think 
Japan is the most beautiful land on earth. I have read a great deal 
about other countries, but none seem so nice as my own country. 

I want to tell you about a visit I made to the beautiful temples at 
Nikko. We were staying at Nikko for a month, and one morning 
some friends came and we went to the temples together. 

First we went through a granite torn, or large gate : on the left is 
a graceful five-storied pagoda, with animals and birds painted and 

carved in wood under the eaves. A little farther on we came to a 
little bouse, where we got our tickets. Then we went up a flight 
of stone steps, and through another large gate ; and on each side 
was a hideous red and blue and green thing, which, we were told 
by our guide, was a lion. Passing through the gate, we saw on our 
right three buildings which were store-houses ; the third is the house 
where Iyeyasu, an old Shogun (to whom the temples are dedicated), 
is said to have kept his white elephant. There is a carving on the 
house of it, but the joints of the hind legs turn the wrong way. On 
the left is a tree which Iyeyasu himself planted, and a little farther 
on is a little house where a policeman stays all the time; and still 
farther on is a beautiful water-cistern of granite, and over it is a roof 
supported by four pillars of the same. 

We then went up another flight of stone stairs and came into an- 
other court. At the top of the steps are two stone lions in the act 
of leaping down. They were presented by lyemitsu, another of 
the Shoguns, or Tycoons, as they are called in America. On the 
right stand a beautiful bell-tower, a bronze candelabrum presented 
by the King of Loochoo, and a bel! given by the King of Korea, 
called the moth-eaten bell, because there is a hole at the top, just 
under the ring by which it is suspended. On the left stand a revolv- 
ing bronze lantern from Korea, and a candelabrum from Holland, 
and a drum-tower, — no unworthy companion to the bell-tower op- 
posite, — and a lantern made of stone. Then, ascending still another 
flight of steps, we came to the temple. Here we had to take off 
our shoes, as the temple is holy. I wish I could describe it to you, 
for it is so lovely. The first room we entered was covered with 
mats, the doors were all of the finest old black lacquer, and above 
are pictures of all the Tokugawa family, and beyond is a room in 
which there is a beautiful shrine. On the right of this room is a 
beautiful servants' corridor, which leads to their part of the house. 
I did not go there, for we were told there was nothing to see. We 
then went to Iyeyasu's room, which has four large doors with in- 
laid Chinese wood. His wife's room is veiy much like it. Even 
the outside is carved and lacquered in a beautiful manner, and as it 
is exposed so, it is a wonder it is not spoilt ; but the eaves are very 
deep. We then went out of the temple and went on to the right. 
We soon came to another little house where we were taken in, 
shown some of the hero's relics, one of which was a kctgo, or sort of 
basket-palanquin in which he had been to war; and in the top is a 
hole which we were told was made by a bullet, but as bullets were 
not in those days in Japan, we did not believe that story. Then 
there were ever so many other things, — suits of armor, suits of 
clothes, masks, swords, and helmets, and many more. We then 
went through another gate and up to a most beautitul place, where 
the tomb is. The way was all paved with stones and had a stone 
balustrade all the way up. There are two hundred steps up to the 
top of the hill. The tomb is of bronze, and in front of it is a low 
stone table bearing an immense bronze stork with a brass candle in 
its mouth, an incense-burner of bronze, and a vase with artificial 
lotus-flowers and leaves in brass. The entrance is through a beau- 
tiful gate which is all carved and is quite solid. Outside sit bronze 
" Koma inn** and " Avia inn," the queer things called lions, 
of which I told you. At the foot of the way leading to the tomb- 
stone is a house in which an old woman sits. If she is given money 
she will dance very gracefully. 

The carvings are all done by Hidari Jingoro. Hidari means left- 
handed ; Jingoro is a name. 

I hope my letter is not too long. I want to tell you that I like 
your magazine very much. I find only one fault with it, and that 
is, there is not, and never will be, enough. I like " Sara Crewe " 
and " Little Lord Fauntleroy " best of all. 

Good-bye, now. With much love, believe me, 

Your sincere friend, Edith H . 

Sault Ste. Marie, Mich. 

Dear St. Nicholas: This is the first time I have written to 
you. I have taken you for two years, and have one year bound. 
I am twelve years old and my little brother is four. I like your 
stories very much, especially "Juan and Juanita," "Little Lord 
Fauntleroy," and " Drill." My little brother is delighted with the 
" Brownies." 

I hope you will put this in, for it is the first I have written, and 
because I have never seen any from the " Soo." Would you like 
to hear something about the " Soo " ? All right. The " Soo," three 
y =ars ago, was but a village of two thousand ; it is now a young city 
of ten thousand. About one year ago there were no railroads ; now 
there are three. A company is building a great water-power canal, to 
cost one million dollars. It will have twenty-five thousand horse- 
power. The " Soo " Ship Canal is the finest and largest in the world. 
From fifty to one hundred vessels pass through it every day. 

Your faithful reader, Arthur R. W . 

" Ben Ayr," Bennington Centre, Vermont. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little boy seven years old. My 
aunt has twice given me the St. Nicholas for Christmas, and I am 
very fond of it. 




We spend our summer up here, and live in Troy for the winter. 
Our barn was struck by lightning this summer, and we lost four 
kittens, and a little red setter puppy, named " Con." 1 felt very sorry; 
but Thomas, our coachman, saved our donkeys. They belonged to 
my mamma when she was a little girl. 1 have a little brother four 
and a half years old, and one donkey belongs to him, and one to me. 
Their names are " Jack " and " Jill." 

I hope to see my letter in the '' Letter-box." Good-bye. 

Your little friend, A. C. S . 

Fort Snellinc, Minn. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I do like your magazine so much. Peo- 
ple have asked me often if I would not rather take some other book, 
but I always say the St. Nicholas suits me the best. I am a little 
army girl. I live at Fort Snellinc My father is the Colonel of the 
Third Infantry. Even- night, when it does not rain, all the troops 
parade, and the band plays. We have taken the St. Nicholas for 
fourteen years. I have two older sisters, and they think that it is 

Yours forever, Frances M . 

London, England. 

Dear St. Nicholas : This is the fourth year we have taken you. 
"We" means my only sister, Dora, aged ten and a half, and my 
brothers, Edgar, nine: Gerald, seven; Rupert, four and a half; 
Justin, two and a half; and Baby Neville, one and a half. At least, 
I think, you can hardly say that Justin and Neville "take you." 
1 am twelve this month, and I enjoy you very much. ".Little Lord 
Fauntleroy " is simply splendid, I think, and Dora and I went to a 
London theater and saw it acted; it was very nice. 

There were two different plays : one was made up by a man called 
Seebohm, which was not at all nice, for it was not a bit like Mrs. 
Burnett's pretty story ; for instance, in this play, Mrs. Errol dresses 
up as a nurse, and goes to the Castle to see her boy in disguise. 
Is n't it horrid? Besides, the man did n't ask Mrs. Burnett's per- 
mission to write it, and so Mrs. Burnett was very angry, and she 
wrote another play, a real, proper one, and with the help of Mrs. 
Kendal it was put on the stage at Terry's theater, where Dora and 
1 saw it. Mrs. Burnett called it " The Real Little Lord Fauntleroy" ! 

1 like Mr. Birch's illustrations so much. "Sara Crewe" is a 
very pretty tale ; I think she is so real and true. 

My father was in America last spring, and I have an American 
friend called Edith H . 

I am your loving and interested Margaret A. B . 

Dear St. Nicholas : As I have never written to you, I thought 
I would write now. Let me tell you first about some young chick- 
ens. The rats ate all of them except one, and the cook took the 
little orphan and raised it in her pocket. After it was large enough 
it would fly on her shoulder and head. At night she would put 
it on a chair and it would roost there. Another hen hatched out 
some chickens, and before this little pullet had ever laid an egg, it 
would take these little chickens and scratch for them, call them, and 
cover them with its wings, just like an old hen. It now takes care 
of twenty little chicks hatched by four different hens. 

I have a Maltese cat, with four dear little ones. One night I missed 
one of them, and we all looked in vain for it. My twin brother 
told us he saw the mother-cat taking them to the barn ; so we gave 
up looking for them. The next morning we went to the barn and 
she found all four, and they had better beds in the barn than they had 
in the bath-room, where I had made a bed for them. One of them 
died, and we made it a nice coffin, and placed flowers on its grave. 

My sister takes the St. Nicholas, and we all like it better than 
anything else to read. 

I remain your little friend, M. Z. M 


Dear St. Nicholas: Nine miles north of Washington, on the 
Baltimore and Ohio railroad, is my father's home. On his place my 
little brothers, sisters, and myself find beautiful Indian arrows by 
the hundred, and some hatchets made of white flint rock. They 
must have been lying where we found them over a century and a 
half, as history tells us that the aborigines ceded all the territory, in 
what is now the State of Maryland, to one of the Lords Baltimore 
about 1740, for the small sum of three hundred pounds. Soon after 
all the Indians disappeared, never to return. And now the little 
children of the sixth generation of p find many relics of the 
extinct red-faces. 

Now I must tell you an extraordinary cat and snake story. Over 
in the mountains of Pennsylvania I have a friend who had two small 
Maltese kittens named in honor of rival candidates for the governor- 
ship of that State — Pattison and Beaver. Beaver, the kitten, died 
and was buried in the cemetery near the house. Each day Pattison 
would visit his grave, and there in his loneliness he formed the ac- 
quaintance of snakes. For a week or so he was observed each day 
climbing the picket fence back of the house, having in his mouth a 
black snake. He would put the snake on the ground and play with 
it until he was tired, then it would crawl away. The family were 
afraid the snakes would hurt the cat, so they let the dog kill them 
each day. 

Ever since 1 was a subscriber of the St. Nicholas, I have been 
unable to read it. owing to weak eyes; but I have had every word 
read to me, and have listened with a great deal of interest, and en- 
joyed it very much. 

I remain your friend and admirer, H. W. M . 

Gloucester, Ohio. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you almost a year, and I 
think you are just lovely. My cousins gave you to me for a Christ- 
mas present. 

1 have never seen anything very wonderful to tell you about, but 
I have been down in a coal mine, seventy-five feet underground. It 
is laid out in rooms, and there is a long entry, leading into each room. 

Horses work in there, drawing the coal from each room to the 
foot of the shaft, where it is drawn up by pulleys, weighed, dumped 
into a vat, and sorted. Then it is put in cars and sent away to differ- 
ent parts of the States. About two hundred men are employed in 
this mine. Hoping this will not be too long to print, I remain. 

Your devoted reader, Mary C . 

New York. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little boy ten years old, and al- 
though I have had but three numbers of your magazine, I am so 
much interested in it that I wonder how I have gotten on so long 
without it. I am always ready with my money several days before 
it comes out. The most interesting stories to me are " Two Little 
Confederates" and " Little Ike Templin." I have just come home 
from the country, where I have had a jolly good time. Now I am 
glad that I have something jolly and good here, which you know is 
your St. Nicholas. 

Looking forward to your next number, 

Your little friend, Willie P. 

Landoir, N. \V P. India. 

My Dear St. Nicholas: My grandmother has been sending 
you to us for three years. I have four brothers and a sister. We 
have a pretty sorrel pony, and my father has a bay horse. I live in 
India. In the summer it gets so hot in the plains that we have to 
come up to the hills. We come up in May and go down in October, 
generally. We live about 7700 feet above the sea-level. In June 
the rainy season begins and lasts three months. In the plains we 
live in Lodiana. In the summer out in the shade the thermometer 
rises to 112 or 115 , and on rare occasions up to 120 . By having 
thick walls and ventilating the hnuse at night, and by large punkahs, 
or fans, pulled by men, we generally keep the temperature of the house 
below ioo°. 

When we first come up here, we start by getting into the train and 
go a certain distance ; then we get into a four-wheeled vehicle. We 
change horses every five or six miles, then the last part of the journey 
we go in " dandies," a sort of sedan-chair, or on ponies. The valley 
below us and the lower hills are fine hunting regions. There are 
tigers, wild elephants, deer, leopards, panthers, and a great many 
other wild animals. There are bears and leopards in the higher hills 
also. Your affectionate friend, 

Frederick Janvier N . 

P. S. — I am an American although I was born here, and I have 
been to America. 

Paris, Kentucky. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have been in the mountains in Harland 
County, Kentucky. 

The women and girls work in the corn-field, planting and hoeing, 
same as the men and boys. 

Nearly every family has a small mill on a branch. At night they 
fill up the hopper with com, and the next morning they have a bushel 
of nice, sweet meal. 

We have been taking you in the family since 1879. I like the 
story about West Point, and am glad the "Bilged Midshipman" 
was taken back into the Academy again. 

Yours truly, Oliver Edwin F . 

Spencer, Iowa. 

Dear St. Nicholas : If you are like us, you don't like to be 
praised to your face, so we won't tell you that you are the best 
magazine going, though we do think so. We think "Davy and the 
Goblin," "Juan and Juanita," and "The Tinkham Brothers' Tide- 
mill " are the best serial stories we have ever read. 

We have two of the dearest little white rabbits that we got this 



2 39 

summer while we were cast on a visit. They are so tame that we let 
them run all about the yard, and they never go away ; but when they 
see anything that scares them, they always run in the house. We 
both have horses to ride, and a little carriage together, but we like 
to ride horse-back best. Mamma has just called us to supper, so I 
gue?s we will stop. 

We have agreed to Like the St. Nicholas as long as we live. 

Your diligent readers, Bessie and Alice. 

Richmond, Va. 
Dear St. Nicholas: My mother has .given me St. Nicholas 
for a birthday gift. I like the "Two Little Confederates " so much. 
I know Mr. Tom Page. He lives here. I am only eight years 
old. I like the stories about birds and everything else. 

Your little friend, Gaston Otey W . 

Api'Leton, Wis. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to tell you about the house I built. 
It is two stones high, and I made it all myself. It has a shingled 
roof, and I can get up in the second story; and besides that I can 
get up on the roof. 1 have a little brother three years old ; his name 
is Kenelm, and he plays in my house day after day. He gets up in 
the second story too. 

I want to tell you about the robins. For a long time I did not see 
a robin, but all at once so many were on the woodbine I could not 
think what was the matter. Up on the roof of a little house where 
some of the vines grow 1 had put some nuts, and one day I went up to 
see whether they were ripe. When I got there I saw berry-seeds and 
skins. I thought at first the birds had been eating grapes, but I 
found that they had been eating the woodbine berries, and that was 
why the robins had come back. 

I am eight years old. I like to have Mamma read to me from your 
magazine very much. I liked the story of the naughty little Knix. 

Margaret W . 

Sacramento, California. 

Dear St. Nicholas : For a long time I have intended to write to 
you and tell you how much I love you, and how eagerly I look for- 
ward every month to your coming. 

I live in one of the far Western States, and although I was born 
in Vermont, I came from there when I was so little that I can not 
remember much about it. I think I like the West better than I 
should the East, but doubtless it would seem strange to many of your 
Eastern readers to live — as I do — under the shade of a fig-tree 
twenty or thirty feet high. 

Your loving reader, L. Gertrude W 

We thank the young friends whose names here follow for pleas- 
ant letters received from them : May E. W., Eleanor Morrison, 
Grafton Knerr, L. N., Elinor Seymour R., Nina Louise Winn, 
Lilla Scobell, Kenneth S., M. L. H., Mary B. Jenkins, Nellie, Lulu 
Grimm, L. June Brewster, Hattie P., Sylvester Van Dyke, Bertha 
P., Edith D., Grace F. Eldredgc, Emma L., Mattie F. Gorton, Josie 
W. Russell, Telza Hirsch, Maud Miller, H. R , Frankie, J. Butler, 
Edith S.,G. F., Norman E. Weldon, F. A. Waring, Ida H., Lillie 
Shields, M. M. Buchanan, Ellen D. B., Edith Bingham, W. Bowen 
and E. W. Baldwin, Kate Guthrie, A. W., Alice T. W., Champe 
Eubank, Miriam B. P., Elsie Leach and Clarice Loweree, E. M. J., 
Gertie Beach, E. V. J. 



Insertions. Baltimore, i. ca-B-in. 2. he-A-rs. 3. sa-L-ve. 
4. al-T-ar. 5. pa-I-nl. 6. to-M-es. 7. al-O-es. 8. ca-R-ts. 
9. cr-E-am. 

Double Zigzag. From r to 10, St. Nicholas; from 11 to 20, 
Advent Days. Cross-words: 1. Scarabee. 2. Stranded. 3. Con- 
serve. 4. Digitate. 5. Recreant. 6. Phonetic. 7. Ophidian. 
8. Plantain. 9. Playdays. 10. Consorts. 

Anagrams, i. Regimentals. 2. Bayonet. 3. Triangle. 4. Tran- 
substantiation. 5. Disappointment. 6. Olive. 7. Breakfast. 8. Es- 
pousal. 9. Orchestra. 

Connected Diamonds. Penny-royal. 1. P. 2. Pea. 3. Penny. 
4. Ant. 5. Y. II. 1. R. 2. Cot. 3. Royal. 4. Tap. 5. L. 

Syncopations. Mistletoe. 1. ru-M-ble.S2. Emers-I-on. 3. Ori-S- 
on. 4. s-T-age. 5. f-L-ame. 6. ch-E-at. 7. mus-T-er. 8. c-O-urse. 
9. wi-E-ld. 

Double Numerical Enigma. 

In this enigma I would bring 
A useful Christmas offering; 
A proverb, new, within my rhyme, 
" Fact before feeling," every time. 
Charade. Fan-dan-go. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Christmas, finals, Good cheer. 
Centrals transposed, grain, poet. Cross-words: 1. CoG. 2. HoppO. 
3 RinaldO. 4. InfiecteD. 5. Sybaritic. 6. TelegrapH. 7. Mis- 

takE. 8. AnniE. 9. SiR. 

To our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 31 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from Maud E. Palmer — Paul 
Reese — Russell Davis — M. J. S. — C. B. Denny — May L. Gerrish — I. F. Gerrish and E. A. Daniell — " Two Cousins " — " Mohawk 
Valley" — "Sam Anselmo Valley" — Mamma, Aunt Martha, and Sharley — D. L. O. and M. O. C— A. H. R. and M. G. R.— Fred and 
Blanche — Annie H. R. — K. G. S. — Auntie, Mamma, and Jamie — Lehte — De Long — "My Wife and I" — Nellie L. Howes — Ida and 
Alice— F. L. Coit— " Blithedale." 

Answers to Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from Katie V. Z., 2 — E. T. H. and M. C, 1 — 
" McKean," 2 — " The Family," 2 — A. C. Lyon, 4 — A. Young, 1 — G. R. Sutherland, 2 — B. K. Hobbs, 1 — H. Appleton, 1 — W. A. 
Jurgens, 1 — " Miss Ouri," 3— Will C. Potter, 2— E.W. Sheldon and B. S. Owen, 5 — R. Packard, 1 — " May and 79," 9 — M, A. 
Root, 2 —Clara O , 7 — Jo and I, 8 — M. Ewing, 1 — Clara and Emma, 1 — B. Cameron, 1 — " Pandora," 1 — No Name. New York, 5 — 
" Grandma," 1 — L. H. F. and "Mistie," 7 — Willoughby, 9 — Anna and Hattie, 3— Nell R., 3 — A. P. Gilbert, 1 — J. B. Harris, 3 — 
Alice W. Tallant, 7 — M. D., 1 — Edith E. Allen, 9 — Ward Brothers, 1 — S. K. Hait. 1 — Adrienne Forrester, 4 — " Infantry," 8 — Lil- 
lie, 5 — Mary W. Stone, 8 — Ida C. Thallon, 9-"Hypatia," 1— Walker Otis, 2— Joslyn Z. and Julian C. Smith, 5 — Etta R.,2 — 
Ebbetts, 1. 


The one hundred squares in the illustration on page 240 contain the names of a number of characters in Shakespeare's plays. They 
may be spelled out by what is known in chess as the "king's move." This, as all chess-players know, is one square at a time in any 
direction: thus, from the square numbered 68 a move can be made to 58, 59, 69, 79, 78, 77, 67, or 57. The same square is not to be used 
twice in any one name. In sending answers, indicate the squares by their numbers, thus: Romeo, 22-33-34-44-45. 

Answers should be addressed to the St. Nicholas " Riddle Box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 
In preparing answers, let the name and address of the solver be plainly written in the upper, right-hand corner of the first page, and also 
state the number of characters discovered. Let the names follow. No solutions will be returned to the senders. For the longest list 
received, a prize of five dollars will be given. If more than one person should discover all the names which may be found in the squares, 
the one who sends the neatest of these long lists shall receive the prize. The twenty senders of the twenty next best solutions shall each 
receive a crisp, new one-dollar bill. 

The competition is open to all. Answers will be received until January 15, excepting those sent from abroad, which will be received 
until January 20. 






H, — . is 
















T 46 

FB 5 













1 k^? 







3o «#« 







HH ; C 




T 6o 

« -*- e°. 





[n^orm^o^ J ^ 

For explanation of the above puzzle, together with the offer of prizes for its correct solution, see the precedi 

njj page — 239. 




Vol. XVI. 

FEBRUARY, 1889. 

No. 4. 


By Joaquin Miller. 

From Shasta town to Redding town 

The ground is torn by miners, dead ; 

The manzanita, rank and red, 

Drops dusty berries up and down 

Their grass-grown trails. Their silent mines 

Are wrapped in chapparal and vines ; 

Yet one gray miner still sits down 

'Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta town. 

The quail pipes pleasantly. The hare 
Leaps careless o'er the golden oat 
That grows below the water moat ; 
The lizard basks in sunlight there. 
The brown hawk swims the perfumed air 
Unfrightened through the livelong day ; 
And now and then a curious bear 
Comes shuffling down the ditch by night, 
And leaves some wide, long tracks in clay 
So human-like, so stealthy light, 
Where one lone cabin still stoops down 
'Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta town. 

That great graveyard of hopes ! of men 
Who sought for hidden veins of gold ; 
Of young men suddenly grown old — 
Of old men dead, despairing when 
The gold was just within their hold ! 
That storied land, whereon the light 
Of other days gleams faintly still ; 

Copyright, 1888, by The Centu 

Somelike the halo of a hill 

That lifts above the falling night ; 

That warm, red, rich, and human land, 
That flesh-red soil, that warm red sand, 
Where one gray miner still sits down ! 
'Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta town ! 

I know the vein is here ! " he said ; 

For twenty years, for thirty years ! 

While far away fell tears on tears 

From wife and babe who mourned him dead. 

No gold ! no gold ! And he grew old 
And crept to toil with bended head, 
Amid a graveyard of his dead, 
Still seeking for that vein of gold. 

Then lo, came laughing down the years 

A sweet grandchild ! Between his tears 

He laughed. He set her by the door 

The while he toiled his day's toil o'er, 

He held her chubby cheeks between 

His hard palms, laughed; and laughing 

You should have seen, have heard and seen 
His boyish joy, his stout old pride, 

RY Co. All rights reserved. 




When toil was done and he sat down 
At night, below sweet Shasta town ! 

At last his strength was gone. " No more ! 

I mine no more. I plant me now 

A vine and fig-tree ; worn and old, 

I seek no more my vein of gold. 

But, oh, I sigh to give it o'er; 

These thirty years of toil ! somehow 

It seems so hard; but now, no more." 

And so the old man set him down 

To plant, by pleasant Shasta town. 

Nor left one leafy vine or tree 

Of all that Eden nestling down 

Below that moat by Shasta town ! 

* * * * e * 

The old man sat his cabin's sill, 

His gray head bowed upon his knee. 

The child went forth, sang pleasantly, 

Where burst the ditch the day before, 

And picked some pebbles from the hill. 

The old man moaned, moaned o'er and o'er: 

My babe is dowerless, and I 

Must fold my helpless hands and die ! 

Ah, me ! what curse comes ever down 

On me and mine at Shasta town ! " 

Good Grandpa, see ! " 

the glad child said, 
And so leaned softly to his 

side, — 
Laid her gold head to his gray head, 
And merry-voiced and cheery cried : 
Good Grandpa, do not weep, but see ! 
I 've found a peck of orange seeds ! 
I searched the hill for vine or tree ; 

And it was pleasant: piped the quail 

The full year through. The chipmunk stole, 

His whiskered nose and tossy tail 

Full buried in the sugar-bowl. 

And purple grapes and grapes of gold 

Swung sweet as milk. White orange-trees 

Grew brown with laden honey-bees. 

Oh ! it was pleasant up and down 

That vine-set hill of Shasta town ! 

* * * * * * 

And then that cloud-burst came ! Ah, me ! 
That torn ditch there ! The mellow land 
Rolled seaward like a rope of sand, 

_..^. ...,',;-/.<"■ 

Not one ! — not even oats or weeds ; 
But, oh, such heaps of orange seeds ! 

Come, good Grandpa ! Now, once you said 
That God is good. So this may teach 
That we must plant each seed, and each 
May grow to be an orange-tree. 
Now, good Grandpa, please raise your head, 
And please come plant the seeds with me." 

And prattling thus, or like to this, 
The child thrust her full hands in his. 

He sprang, sprang upright as of old. 
'T is gold ! 't is gold ! my hidden vein ! 



'T is gold for you, sweet babe, 't is gold ! 
Yea, God is good ; we plant again ! " 

So one old miner still sits down 
By pleasant, sunlit Shasta town. 

...,,^r«. i^ps 

V- '",,! 

By Arlo Bates. 

When birds to sun-lands southward wing, 

And chilly winds begin to blow, 
The babies that were born in spring 

Think all delights are ended so. 
But Jack Frost laughs aloud, " Ho, ho ! 

There 's joy ahead they little know. 
They have not seen the snow ! " 

Then he begins to call his sprites 

From the bleak, trackless north afar, 

Where each one in the frozen nights 
Has made from ice a crystal star. 

And Jack Frost laughs in glee, " Ha, ha ! 
These shine like bits of glittering spar. 
What flowers fairer are ? " 

And from the clouds he rains them down 

Upon the cheerless earth below ; 
So thick they cover field and town, 

So fair the brooks forget to flow. 
And Jack Frost laughs, well pleased, " Ho, ho ! 

Could summer whiter blossoms show? 
What think you of my snow ? " 

By Noah Brooks. 


o»»" co "-r; A ._ During the past twelvemonth, 
orso, there have been coming from 
the heart of Africa — that mys- 
terious and little-known land — 
sundry rumors concerning a per- 
sonage whom the natives call the 
White Pasha. In African coun- 
tries a Pasha is a military officer 
whose rank corresponds to that of 
general in European usage. A Bey is a colonel ; 
but neither Bey nor Pasha need always be in com- 
mand of troops. A Pasha usually has an authority 
of some sort, however. The White Pasha, in this 
case, is known to have with him a large force of 
armed men ; for the natives, of a warlike race, have 
made many attacks on the White Pasha and have 
always been beaten off. So this mysterious person- 
age, whoever he is, must be well provided with 
means of defense and have with him many war- 
riors. Who can he be ? There are not many white 
men traveling about in the midst of the Dark 
Continent, as Africa is sometimes called. Some 
have thought the White Pasha may be General 
Gordon, the wonderful and famous man who was 
besieged in Khartoum, a year or two ago, by the 
Mahdi, or Prophet, when that person rebelled and 
fought against the Egyptian Government, took 
Khartoum, and cruelly put its defenders to death. 
It sounds like a fairy tale to be told that Gordon 
escaped far to the south of Khartoum and organ- 
ized a force of fighting natives and is making his 
way out of the Dark Continent. But the story is 
improbable. Many people have begun to think 
the White Pasha is Henry M. Stanley, the famous 
African explorer. 

Everybody will hope that this unknown armed 
white traveler is Stanley ; otherwise, there is reason 
to believe that that remarkable man has perished. 
But, as Stanley is one man in the heart of Africa, 
who is not only white, but well provided with arms, 
ammunition, and men, this is likely to be he. We 
Americans claim Stanley as an American ; but he 
was not born in this country, although he has lived 
here — when he has not been wandering in savage 
lands — and it is fair to call him one of us. 

Stanley was born in Wales, near the little town 
of Denbigh, and his parents were so poor that 
when he was about three vears old he was sent to 

the poorhouse of St. Asaph to be brought up and 
educated. When he was thirteen years old, he 
was turned loose to take care of himself. Young 
though he was, he was ambitious and well-informed. 
As a lad, he taught school in the village of Mold, 
Flintshire, North Wales. Getting tired of this, he 
made his way to Liverpool, England, when he was 
about fourteen years of age, and there he shipped 
as cabin-boy on board a sailing vessel bound to 
New Orleans, in the promised land to which so 
many British-born youths ever turn their eyes. In 
New Orleans he fell in with a kindly merchant, a 
Mr. Stanley, who adopted him and gave him his 
name ; for our young hero's real name was John 
Rowlands, and he was not Stanley until he became 
an American, as you see. Mr. Stanley died before 
Henry came of age, leaving no will, and the lad 
was again left to shift for himself. 

Young Stanley lived in New Orleans until 1861, 
when he was twenty-one years old, having been 
born in 1840. Then the great Civil War broke 
out, and Stanley went into the Confederate Army. 
He was taken prisoner by the Federal forces, and, 
being allowed his liberty, he volunteered in the 
Federal Navy, being already fond of seafaring 
and adventure. He did his work well, and in 
course of time was promoted to be Acting Ensign 
on the iron-clad " Ticonderoga." He seems to 
have made friends wherever he went, for he was 
brave, modest, and of a generous disposition. 

The war being over, he was discharged from the 
naval service, and his love of adventure led him to 
travel. He went to Asia Minor, saw many strange 
countries, wrote letters to the American news- 
papers, and, in 1866, visited his native village in 
Wales. At St. Asaph he gave a handsome din- 
ner to the children of the poorhouse where he had 
been cared for as a child ; and, in a little speech 
to the youngsters, he told them that he was grate- 
ful that he had been so well nurtured there, and 
that the education given him at St. Asaph's 
was the foundation of all the success he had had 
in life, or might have hereafter. Even then 
Stanley might say that he was a successful man; 
for he was beloved and respected, had made his 
own way in the world, had traveled far and wide, 
and was making for himself a name and fame. 

Returning to the United States, he was sent by 




Mr. Bennett, of The New York Herald, to Abys- 
sinia in 1868, a war having broken out between 
the British and the king of that country. Here 
Stanley got his first taste of African adventure. 
It was not a long war; for the British soon shut 
up King Theodore in his fortress of Magdala, 
where he perished miserably, by his own hand, 
amidst the flames of the burning citadel. It was 
a strange campaign, and Stanley wrote an account 
of the war, with its cruelties and its wild adventure, 
that reads like a romance, true though it all was. 

The very next year a great rebellion broke out 
in Spain, and a war, long and cruel, followed. 
Cities were sacked, sieges were undertaken, and 
the land was filled with trouble. Thither went 
Stanley, again in the service of The New York 
Herald, for which he had done so much satisfac- 
tory work. He saw the battles and the sieges, 
studied the art of war, and wrote letters describing 
very vividly all that passed before his eyes. 

When the war in Spain was over, in the autumn 
of 1S69, the world was beginning to wonder 
whether Dr. Livingstone, the devoted Christian 
missionary and African explorer, were alive or 
dead. Dr. Livingstone was a Scotchman who 
studied medicine and divinity (or the purpose of 
going to pagan nations to preach Christianity and 
minister to the needs of the heathen. He offered 
his services to the London Missionary Society, and 
was sent to South Africa, a country which we 
then knew very little about, except for a short dis- 
tance from the coast. And what little was known 
of the interior of the Dark Continent was told by 
slave-catchers who brought to the coast the poor 
black people they had captured and driven out to 
sell, like so many cattle, to the slave-traders. Dr. 
Livingstone, a kind and gentle man, determined 
to do what he could to hinder the work of these 
cruel slavers, break up their trade, and spread the 
light of the Christian religion throughout the un- 
known land. 

He arrived at Cape Town, Africa, in 1840, and 
from that time to his death, more than thirty-three 
years, he spent his life in the work to perform 
which he had consecrated himself. As he went 
away from the few settlements of the white people, 
he soon began to explore regions that were indeed 
dark and " full of the habitations of cruelty." His 
mind was kindled by a love for exploration as well 
as by a desire to take the light of the Gospel to 
pagan tribes. So, in 1858, he returned to Eng- 
land and published a book giving an account of his 
missionary labors and his discoveries. That book 
created much interest throughout the civilized 
world. It was a message from the Dark Conti- 
nent, as Stanley afterwards called Africa. Money 
was liberally subscribed to enable Livingstone to 

carry on his explorations. He went back accom- 
panied by his wife, and, starting from the mouth 
of the Zambesi river, he explored that stream and 
its tributaries, discovered a great lake in the inte- 
rior, rumors of which had reached the coast; and 
he traversed all the region around the head-waters 
of the northeast branch of the Zambesi. His wife 
died in the interior of Africa in 1862, and in 1S63 
he returned to England, and published another 
book giving a history of his explorations. 

Again he returned to his task, in 1865, and when 
nothing had been heard of him for a year there 
came a report that he had been killed by the sav- 
ages. An expedition under Mr. E. D. Young was 
sent in search of Livingstone, and, although he was 
not found, tidings of his being alive were gathered 
from the natives, and early in 1869 letters from 
the missionary explorer, written a year before, 
were received, showing that he was alive and well. 
He had traversed many thousands of miles, the 
first white man that had ever penetrated those un- 
traveled regions, accompanied only by his faithful 
and affectionate blacks, recording in his little jour- 
nals what he saw and heard, and gathering a store 
of novel and most fascinating information. But 
now, in the autumn of 1869, more than twenty 
months had passed since his last letter was written. 
No word of his came out of the darkness, only sad- 
dening rumors, and the world began to believe that 
the faithful missionary and explorer had died in 
the heart of the Dark Continent. 

It was at this time that Stanley, resting after a 
long and weary campaign in Spain, received from 
Paris a telegram from Mr. James Gordon Bennett, 
summoning him to that city. With his usual 
soldierly promptness, Stanley packed his baggage 
instantly, and, without an hour's delay, was off for 
Paris as fast as steam could carry him. Arriving 
at the French capital early in the morning, he 
went straightway to Mr. Bennett's hotel before that 
gentleman was out of bed. In answer to his knock 
on the door, a voice called to him to enter. The 
two men had not met in years; Stanley was 
bronzed and aged by sun and storm, and Bennett 
asked, abruptly, " Who are you ? " 

" I am Stanley, and I have come in answer to 
your message," was the reply. 

Bennett invited Stanley to a seat, and, drawing 
a wrapper over his shoulders, asked, " Will you 
go to Africa and find Livingstone ?" 

We may well imagine that Stanley was startled. 
He reflected for a moment. Then he answered, " I 
will." The agreement was actually concluded. 
But, before he left the room, some of the smaller 
details were agreed upon and Stanley went out, 
clothed with a commission to find Livingstone, and 
promised ample funds for all expenses and for the 



relief of the great explorer, in case he should be 
found in need, as undoubtedly would be the case, 
if he were found at all. 

This was in November, 1869 ; and Stanley was 
told to go to Africa by a devious route, in order to 
visit sundry places of interest on his way. He 
went first to the Suez Canal opening, that great 
work being just ready for commerce. Then he 
visited Constantinople, the battle-fields of the Cri- 
mea, Bombay, and thence to Zanzibar, on the east 
coast of Africa, where he arrived early in 1 871. 
Some time was spent in organizing the expedition, 
several caravans, or trains, being dispatched, one 
after the other, loaded with ammunition, arms, pro- 
visions and other necessaries, and with a large sup- 
ply of goods with which to purchase his right of 
way through hostile or unfriendly kingdoms and 
chieftaincies ; for it is the custom of the rulers of in- 
terior Africa to levy tribute on all who pass through 
their territories. Glass beads, fine brass and cop- 
per wire, cloths of divers colors, and trinkets of 
European make are as good in that country as 
money is in civilized regions. 

Last of all, and bringing up the rear, was Stan- 
ley himself. His force, leaving the coast March 21, 
1871, consisted of one hundred and ninety-two 
persons, negroes and Arabs. The daring adven- 
turer launched out into the untraveled spaces of 
Central Africa, with these words ringing in his 
ears, " Find Livingstone ! " 

Enduring many hardships, now fighting and 
anon coaxing the natives, Stanley pressed on, his 
general course being in a north-westerly direction, 
certain signs and certain rumors, perhaps instincts, 
leading him to believe that Livingstone would be 
found, if alive, in the region of Lake Tanganyika. 
He heard stories, reasonable and incredible, of the 
white man who had gone into the heart of the con- 
tinent years before and had been lost to view. 
After a little these rumors grew more distinct and 
hopeful, and he made up his mind that Living- 
stone was alive and that he should find him, pro- 
vided the missionary explorer did not elude him ; 
for some had said that Livingstone did not wish to 
be found. So Stanley pressed on and, to his great 
joy, found traces of the lost man. His first intima- 
tion of being near Livingstone was when a black, 
coming from the village where an unknown white 
man was said to be, spoke to him in excellent 
English. This man was one of Dr. Livingstone's 
servants ; and soon the two white men met for the 
first time, in the midst of the Dark Continent, at 
Ujiji, on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, November 
10, 1871. 

Stanley had found Livingstone. 

Any but men of the cool and self-contained 
Saxon race would have rushed into each other's 

arms. Not so with these. Stanley, lifting his 
cap, said, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" The 
doctor nodded a reply, and Stanley said, "I am 

Stanley found that Livingstone was destitute of 
goods or other means of barter, and was now at 
a standstill. Look on the map of Africa (p. 254). 
Due west from Cape Delgado (which is below Zan- 
zibar and on the northern line of Mozambique), you 
will find Lake Nyassa, the great lake discovered by 
Livingstone in 1859. North-westerly from that 
body of water, and about one-third of the way 
across the continent, is Lake Tanganyika, and near 
its upper end, on the eastern shore, is Ujiji, where 
Stanley found Livingstone. Stanley, fresh from 
the outer world, and fired with the spirit of adven- 
ture, proposed that he and Livingstone should to- 
gether explore the great lake of Tanganyika at its 
northern end to find, if possible, whether this was 
one of the sources of the Nile for which so many 
men have vainly searched for centuries past. The 
expedition was carried out successfully, and the 
explorers satisfied themselves that the Nile had no 
affluent drawing from the lake ; no outlet could be 

Stanley remained with Livingstone until March 
14, 1872, busied with explorations of the region. 
He supplied Livingstone with all the goods and 
commodities that he could spare, and on his return 
to Zanzibar he sent him men, supplies, and such 
articles as he needed, fulfilling the orders of Mr. 
Bennett. Stanley never saw Livingstone again in 
life. A strong friendship grew up between the two 
white men who met in the interior of Africa under 
such strange circumstances, and when Stanley, in 
1874, learned that Livingstone had died on the 
shores of Lake Bemba, at the very threshold of 
the dark region he desired to explore, he was 
smitten with grief. 

Livingstone died of malarial fever contracted in 
the pestilential marshes of Africa, as many Euro- 
peans have died before and since. His faithful 
blacks embalmed his body and carried it to the 
coast, hundreds of miles, bringing with them every 
article belonging to the doctor, even to the small- 
est scraps of paper, on which were written the notes 
of the explorer's last work. Livingstone was 
buried in Westminster Abbey, that grand resting- 
place for the great ones of England. Stanley was 
one of those who bore him to his grave. It was 
then, he tells us, that he vowed that he would clear 
up the mystery of the Dark Continent, find the 
real course of the Great River, or, if God should so 
will, be the next martyr to the cause of geographi- 
cal science. 

When Stanley returned to Europe, after his 
discovery of Livingstone, in July, 1872, many peo- 



pie refused to believe his story. Some said it was 
the idle tale of "a mere newspaper correspond- 
ent"; but the evidence he brought with him, let- 
ters from Livingstone, and other things, was too 
strong. The Queen believed him, for she sent him 
a beautiful box of gold set with jewels ; and the 
Royal Geographical Society of Great Britain, a 
very high and mighty body, believed him, for it 
showed him high honor. But it does seem a great 
shame that after a Christian and a noble-hearted 
man, as Stanley is, had done so much and suffered 
so many privations in a good cause he should have 
been stigmatized as a pretender. No wonder he 
was angry. 

Stanley tells us that he saw in London, one day 
soon after the burial of his great friend Living- 
stone, in the window of an old book-shop, a queer 
little book with the title, "How to Observe." He 
bought it, took it home, and speedily mastered its 
contents. It was a modest manual for the obser- 
ver, telling him what to observe and how to ob- 
serve, laying down very general rules for this pur- 
pose. It was just such a book as a keen-witted 
traveler like Stanley would find quickening. As 
his thoughts were already turned toward the Dark 
Continent and its mysterious depths, he bought 
books of African travels, books of botany, natural 
history, geography, geology, and ethnology, and 
hungrily mastered all that they had to give him. 
He was preparing his mind for observing and un- 
derstanding all he might see and hear, in case 
he should ever go into the heart of Africa. For 
him the opportunity came, as it usually does to 
those who are ready and willing. 

The outlet of the great Lake Tanganyika was as 
yet undiscovered ; nobody knew much about the 
great river that reaches from the Congo coast 
into the interior, losing itself in the foam of the 
cataracts ; and the secret sources of the Nile were 
yet undiscovered. Even the then famous lake 
known as Victoria Nyanza was only imperfectly 
sketched on the maps ; and people familiar with 
African exploration were uncertain whether that 
vast body of water was one lake or a chain of lakes. 
These things Livingstone hoped to clear up ; but 
he died without the sight. 

Discussing such matters with the editor of the 
London Daily Telegraph one day, Stanley was 
asked whether he could settle these questions if he 
were commissioned to go to Africa. 

He said : " While I live, there will be something 
done. If I survive the time required to perform 
all the work, all shall be done." This was well 
said, and equally to the point was the answer that 
James Gordon Bennett telegraphed under the sea 
from New York to London, when the proprietor 
of the Telegraph asked him, by the cable, if he 

would join the new expedition. "Yes. Bennett." 
was the answer speedily flashed back. The 
mighty work was determined upon. 

Of course, there were a great many details to be 
arranged, and many things, large and small, to be 
looked after. Six weeks were allowed for prepara- 
tions. When it was noised abroad that Stanley 
was to make another expedition into the heart of 
Africa, he and the people associated with him 
were overrun with applications from men to go 
with him and with all sorts of strange contrivances 
and absurd inventions to help him out. But when 
he finally left England, August 15, 1874, he had 
engaged only three white men, Frank and Edward 
Pocock and Frederick Barker. These, with the 
goods and other needed articles, were sent on be- 
fore, and, twenty months after his last departure 
from Zanzibar, Stanley was once more at that 
place, ready to begin his final preparations. 

This work required much time and skill, to say 
nothing of experience and patience. Everything 
must be carried by porters, for the journey must 
be made on foot. The trails in many places are 
not more than eighteen inches wide, leading 
through jungles and tangled thickets, and in many 
places even these must be cut by the travelers. 
Each porter carries, usually on his head, a burden 
of sixty pounds ; and as the total weight of the en- 
tire "outfit," as we would say in America, was a 
little more than eight tons in weight, a carrying 
force of some three hundred men was required. 
The burdens consisted of cloths, beads, brass and 
copper wire, and other articles for trading pur- 
poses, stores, medicines, bedding, ammunition, 
tents, a boat built in sections (the "Lady Alice "), 
oars, instruments, photographic apparatus, and 
other articles too numerous to mention, but abso- 
lutely necessary to the expedition. 

Stanley found some of the men who had been 
with him on his previous journey when he searched 
for Livingstone ; and it spoke well for his treat- 
ment of them that they all wished to go with him 
again. When he was ready to depart, he had 
two hundred and twenty-four persons, some of the 
men taking their wives with them. He had also 
with him three native young men from the Eng- 
lish mission near Zanzibar. With him, too, was 
the faithful Kalulu, an African boy, originally a 
slave, given to Stanley when he was in the Tangan- 
yika country, on the Livingstone search. This 
lad had been in America, and all of Stanley's friends 
will remember the bright, handsome, bronze-col- 
ored lad, who accompanied his beloved master 
everywhere in this country, dressed in a picturesque 
suit of garments like a page's costume. 

Leaving Zanzibar, with many conflicting emo- 
tions, the company landed at Bergamoyo, on the 




mainland, November 13. Five days later, having 
secured six asses for the use of the sick, and made 
their final preparations, the column boldly ad- 
vanced into the heart of the Dark Continent. 

By looking at the map of Central Africa shown 
on page 254, you will see that the general direc- 
tion of the expedition was at first nearly westerly, 
then, curving to the north, it was aimed for Vic- 
toria Nyanza, at the most northerly point of that 
stage of the journey. The march was hindered by 
heavy rains, damp and poisonous exhalations arose 
from the ground, and the first month of the expe- 
dition was a gloomy one. Stanley's own weight, 
in thirty-eight days, fell from one hundred and 
eighty pounds to one hundred and thirty ; and 
the three young Englishmen were reduced in like 
manner. Very soon, one of these, Edward Pocock, 
was taken ill, and, although he was carried back to 
the high table-land nearer the coast, he died and 
was buried in that lonely region, Stanley reading 
the Church service over his African grave. 

By the 21st of January, fatigued by toilsome 
marches, or smitten with disease, twenty of the men 
had died, many were sick and disabled, and, to 
crown their misfortunes, eighty-nine men had 
deserted. They were now in a hostile region and 
were attacked by the natives two days in succes- 
sion ; but after hard fighting they got away and 
left the inhospitable tribes behind them, and new 
men were engaged at the friendly villages they 
entered. In this way, the expedition fought and 
labored onward to the Victoria Nyanza. 

There was great excitement and hilarity in the 
Stanley company when, on the 27th of February, 
the shores of Victoria Nyanza were reached at its 
extreme southern verge. The natives celebrated 
the event with an extemporaneous song of victory 
and triumph. The word "Nyanza," Stanley ex- 
plains, means " water," whether in a cup or in a 
great lake. We should translate the title of this 
great lake as Victoria Water, but usage will proba- 
bly adopt Victoria Lake as the fittest name for this 
great sheet of water. Stanley circumnavigated the 
lake, passing entirely around it, and settling all 
dispute as to the draining of the waters of this lake 
into Albert Nyanza, a smaller body of water con- 
nected by the Victoria Nile with Victoria Nyanza. 
As the White Nile draws from Albert Nyanza, it 
may be said that Victoria Nyanza is one of the 
sources of the Nile, if not the source of that his- 
toric river. 

In their voyage around the Lake Victoria, which 
consumed six weeks, the explorers had a taste of 
the sort of warfare that they might expect on all 
such water expeditions. They were repeatedly at- 
tacked from the shore and from canoes. But the 
fire-arms of the white men usually dispersed the 

enemy. During the absence of the exploring 
party from the camp on the lake, Frederick Barker 
died of fever, leaving Frank Pocock and Stanley 
the only white men in the party. 

It was here that Stanley met good King Mtesa, 
the ruler of the country of Uganda, and who, un- 
der the teaching of Stanley, was converted to 
Christianity. Mtesa had been a mild-mannered 
and benevolent pagan ; then he embraced Mo- 
hammedanism, and now he accepted Christianity 
as the true faith. When Stanley went away, after 
a long and pleasant tarry with the king, Mtesa said 
to him : " Stamlee, say to the white people, when 
you write to them, that I am like a man sitting in 
darkness, or born blind, and that all I ask is that 
I may be taught how to see, and I shall be con- 
tinue a Christian while I live." This message was 
safely delivered and, although King Mtesa did not 
live to see his kingdom Christianized, missionaries 
were sent to Uganda and the religion of Christ was 
there preached, as he had desired. Mtesa will 
long be known as a generous and kindly African 

On his way to a lake lying westward of Victoria 
Lake, and known as Muta Nzege, Stanley passed 
through the regions of another African king, 
Rumanika, who was an odd character, but, on the 
whole, very friendly to the white man. . At the 
court of Rumanika Stanley heard many strange 
stories of the unknown regions in the heart of the 
continent. One told of a race of dwarfs ; another 
of a tribe of little men with tails like those of a 
buffalo. In those far-off lands, he was gravely told, 
were people with ears so long that they descended 
to their feet ; one ear was used as a blanket to 
sleep on, while the other was a cover to the sleeper. 
Later on, Stanley met men who told him that on 
Lake Tanganyika were to be found ships sailing, 
manned by white Africans. Is it any wonder that 
we have been for centuries beguiled with ridicu- 
lous tales about these foreign lands? 

King Rumanika had an inquiring mind. Ob- 
serving that Stanley's nose was not flat like an 
African's, and that the nose of Stanley's bull-dog 
was a pug, he asked why the white man's nose was 
so long and the nose of his dog so short. The 
king was satisfied when he was told that the white 
man's nose was made long by smelling of the 
quantity of good food that he had in his country, 
and that the dog's nose was made short by push- 
ing open the house doors. 

From Muta Nzege, Stanley went south to ex- 
plore that part of Lake Tanganyika that he and 
Livingstone had not had time to sail around, in 
1871-72. He went entirely around the southern 
part of the lake, which he found to be three hun- 
dred and twenty-nine miles long, averaging a 



width of twenty-eight miles. It has no known out- 
let, and a lead-line of two hundred and eighty feet 
found no bottom. Stanley tells an interesting native 
story, that in ancient times an old woman and her 
husbanddwelt here in a hut, in the middle of which 

disaster. In a moment of thoughtlessness, the 
woman let a stranger see the well and attempt to 
catch one of the fish. Then the earth groaned 
and heaved, the well sank, and its place was 
covered by the sheet of water, bottomless and 

was a marvelous well full of crystal-clear water, and vast, that is now known as Tanganyika, a name 

with many fish upon which the aged couple lived, signifying a plain of water. 

The gods had told them that so long as they Stanley's march from Tanganyika to the river 

never divulged the secret the well should be theirs Lualaba was very toilsome and perilous. The 

alone. To show it to a stranger would be a great route lay through jungles well-nigh impassable, 



while the ground was so covered with tropical 
growths and the forests were so dense as to be al- 
most impenetrable. But worse obstacles than these 
afterwards encountered him. At Nyangwe, the 
most distant point in Central Africa ever reached 
by those who had gone before him, Stanley had 
the good fortune to meet with Tippoo Tib, a famous 
Arab trader ; otherwise he might have had to 
turn back to Ujiji, as Cameron and Livingstone 
had done before him. For a consideration of five 
thousand dollars, Tippoo Tib agreed to accom- 
pany Stanley on the exploration of the Lualaba, 
or Great River. If this agreement had not been 
made it is likely that the expedition would have 
failed, and we should never know, as we know 
now, that the Congo and the Lualaba are one 
river, the second largest in the world, extending 
from its mouth on the western coast of Africa more 
than halfway across the continent, and having its 
rise near the great lakes of the interior. Here- 
after, this one vast stream may be known as the 
Livingstone, a name given to it by its explorer and 

Tippoo Tib agreed to go with Stanley sixty 
marches, taking with him one hundred and fifty of 
his own followers. As we shall hear of Tippoo Tib 
many times, in our news from Africa, we may as 
well explain that he is a man well known through 
the interior of the Dark Continent as a person of 
great wealth and influence, able to assemble a 
thousand men at very short notice, and on thebest 
of terms with the petty kings who vex the souls of 
all white explorers, robbing them at times, and ex- 
acting oppressive tribute at others. Stanley got on 
better with the natives than did any of those who 
had gone before him. He was wise, patient, gen- 
tle, and yet so firm and decided that he was held in 
great awe and respect wherever he was known. It 
would appear that no man ever had so complete 
sway over the minds of savages and semi-savages 
as had Stanley on this and other journeys. 

The object of the journey was to shed light on 
the western half of the continent, then represented 
on the map by a blank, through which meandered 
a few uncertain lines representing rivers — guessed 
at, but not known. 

Leaving the river and deflecting to the westward, 
Stanley struggled on through a forest matted and 
interlaced with vines, swarming with creeping 
things, damp and reeking with vapors, and drip- 
ping with moisture. It was a most intolerable 
stage of the journey. When again he struck the 
river, he resolved to go by land no farther. Here 
he was finally abandoned by Tippoo Tib, who 
resolutely turned back. Stanley, as resolutely, set 
himself to work building and buying canoes, and 
led by his own section-built English boat, the 

'Lady Alice," the expedition started down the 
great river, which here flows due north. The fleet 
was twenty-three in number, loaded with stores, 
goods, and supplies. 

Of the adventures of that famous voyage we 
have not here space to tell. The explorers were 
sore beset, at times, by hostile tribes who attacked 
the strangers from the shore, or from canoes, in 
pure wantonness, as they paddled or drifted down 
the stream. Sickness and hunger were often their 
lot; they were pursued by cannibals who boasted 
that they would eat the flesh of the strangers. 
And not seldom they were overtaken by tropical 
storms. In places, too, they encountered rapids 
and cataracts around which their fleet had to be 
dragged through paths cut in the virgin forest, 
while savages hovered about. The forests were 
alive with African beasts; chimpanzees and gorillas 
chattered and roared from the thickets, and mon- 
keys swung in the climbing vines that festooned 
the trees. A hippopotamus once attacked them, 
and elephants and rhinoceroses were never far 
away. It was a journey the like of which man has 
never before undertaken. 

At a point below where the great river turns from 
its northerly course and deflects to the westward, 
just above the equator, were found a series of cata- 
racts, seven in number, the first of which was named 
Livingstone Falls and the seventh Stanley Falls. 
In years to come we shall hear much of Stanley 
Falls, as a supply station has since been established 
there. The natives from this point downward to 
the mouth of the Congo, or Livingstone, have lost 
something of their natural ferocity. They have 
been tamed by trade. Great was the rejoicing 
of Stanley's Zanzibar men when they saw, not far 
from this point, fire-arms in the hands of the 
native warriors. This showed them that they had 
reached a people supplied by traders from the 
west coast of Africa. 

The passing of the last group of cataracts was 
attended by many dangers. In spite of all their 
efforts, canoes were sometimes carried over the falls 
and wrecked. In one afternoon, nine men were lost 
in this way, and among them was Kalulu, Stanley's 
favorite native boy, who had faithfully accompanied 
and waited on him for years, and who came to New 
York with his master several years ago. His 
name will be found on the maps now, for Stanley 
named the cataract where he met his death, Kalu- 
lu Falls. A still greater grief was in store for the 
harassed explorer ; for, on the 3d of June, Frank 
Pocock, the last of Stanley's white companions, 
was drowned in the Congo by the upsetting of a 
boat. This was a heavy and most lamentable dis- 
aster. Frank was a brave, faithful, and devoted 
follower of Stanley, who has paid a touching trib- 


= 53 

ute to the manliness, affection, and courage of this 
lovable young Englishman who lies buried in the 
savage wilderness of the Congo. 

Very soon, as they drew near the coast, in the 
latter part of the summer of 1877, sickness and 
famine pressed hard upon the weary travelers. 
They were destitute of nearly everything that 
could sustain nature. They could not buy of the 
churlish natives, and starvation stared them in the 
face. Knowing that a trading-post was established 
at Embomma, two days' journey down the river, 
Stanley wrote a letter on an old piece of drilling, 
and sent it by his swiftest runners. This was the 
letter: * 

Village of Nsanda, August 4, 1877. 
To anv Gentleman who Speaks English at Embomma: 

Dear Sir: I have arrived at this place from Zanzibar with one 
hundred and fifteen souls, men, women, and children. We are now 
in a state of imminent starvation. We can buy nothing from the 
nalives, for they laugh at our kinds of cloth, beads, and wire. There 
are no provisions in the country that may be purchased, except on 
market days, and starving people can not afford to wait for these 
markets. I, therefore, have made bold to dispatch three of my 
young men, natives of Zanzibar, with a boy named Robert Feruzi, 
of the English Mission at Zanzibar, with this letter, craving relief from 
you. I do not know you ; but 1 am told there is an Englishman 
at Embomma, and, as you are a Christian and a gentleman, I beg 
you not to disregard my request. The boy Robert will be better able 
to describe our lone condition than I can tell you in this letter. We 
are in the state of the greatest distress; but, if your supplies arrive 
in time, I may be able to reach Embomma within four days. I 
want three hundred cloths, each four yards long, of such quality as 
you trade with, which is very different from that we have; but better 
than all would be ten or fifteen man-loads of rice or grain to fill their 
pinched bellies immediately, as even with the cloths it would require 
time to purchase food, and starving people can not wait. The sup- 
plies must arrive within two days, or I may have a fearful time of it 
among the dying. Of course, I hold myself responsible for any ex- 
pense you may incur in this business. What is wanted is immediate 
relief, and I pray you to use your utmost energies to forward it at 
once. For myself, if you have such little luxuries as tea, coffee, 
sugar, and biscuits by you, such as one man can easily carry, I beg 
you on my own behalf that you will send a small supply, and add 
to the great debt of gratitude due to you upon the timely arrival of 
the supplies for my people. Until that time I beg you to believe me, 

Yours sincerely, 
H. M. Stanley, 
Commanding Anglo-American Expedition 
for Exploration of Africa. 

P- S. — You may not know me by name; I therefore add, lam 
the person that discovered Livingstone in 1871. — H. M. S. 

Another letter was written in French, and 
another in Spanish. Most European merchants 
understand French and Spanish. In the anxiety 
of his despair, Stanley left no means untried to 
reach the unknown white traders whom he heard 
were at Embomma. 

We can not imagine the amazement of the white 
men at Embomma when this cry of starving men 
came out of the trackless wilds of the Congo coun- 
try where it could not have been supposed that any 
civilized man was wandering. The gentlemen into 
whose hands this threefold message fell were Mr. 
John W. Harrison and Mr. A. da Motta Veiga, 
the former from Liverpool and the latter a Portu- 

* Reprinted from Stanley's "Through the Dark Continent," 

guese. Their response was prompt, generous, and 
most thoughtful. 

Stanley's messengers joyfully returned to the 
camp and were closely followed by a small caravan 
laden with ample supplies of food and other neces- 
saries, even luxuries, for the relief of the famish- 
ing people, who, when this timely succor arrived, 
were on the brink of starvation, having had noth- 
ing to eat for thirty hours. Words can not describe 
the joy and exultation of the distressed followers 
of Stanley at the sight of this welcome relief. 
Murabo, a boat-boy, who seems to have been 
something of a minstrel and a bard, struck up an 
impromptu hymn of praise celebrating the kind- 
ness and liberality of " the white men of the second 
sea," and loud and clear, says Stanley, rose the 
chorus at the end of each stanza : 

" Then sing, O friends; sing, the journey is ended ; 
Sing aloud. O friends, sing to this great sea." 

As for Stanley, the devoted leader, the "great 
master," as they called him, he tells us that he 
rushed to the privacy of his tent to hide the tears 
of gratitude and joy that welled from his eyes. The 
journey was ended. Privations were over. Stan- 
ley sent back to the coast a touching letter of 
thanks, in which thankfulness to the God who had 
delivered them out of all their perils, and to the 
kindly gentlemen who had succored them, were 
written out of a full heart. 

There is little left to tell of this wonderful expe- 
dition. On the 9th of August, 1877, the 999th day 
from the date of their departure from Zanzibar, 
the company, now numbering one hundred and 
fourteen blacks and one white man, met the ad- 
vance guard of civilization, the generous traders 
and merchants of Embomma. How pale these 
looked to Stanley, who had so long seen only the 
bronze faces and dark skins of the natives ! How 
well-dressed and gay they seemed in comparison 
with the tattered and dirty voyagers from the 
heart of the Dark Continent. 

From the mouth of the Congo, or Livingstone, 
the expedition was carried by steamer to Kabinda, 
a seaport only a short distance up the coast, where 
the blacks supposed that Stanley would leave them 
and go home ; but, true to his word, he told them 
that he would never leave them until they were 
once more in their own home. Carried thence 
to the port San Paolo de Loanda, they were 
embarked on board a British man-of-war and 
then taken to Cape Town. Thence, touching 
at Port Natal, they steamed to Zanzibar, where 
they arrived on the 20th of November. Long since 
given up for dead, the blacks were greeted by 
their kindred with songs and tears, with thanks- 
givings, wonder, and cries of joy. They had 

by permission of the publishers, Messrs. Harper & Brothers. 




pierced the heart of the continent, doubled the the new organization was called, and he returned 

great Cape, and were at home. to Africa in 1879, where he remained nearly six 

Stanley returned to England from Zanzibar, years, hard at work on the Congo, or Livingstone, 

December 13th, 1877. Immediately on his arrival, making roads, establishing stations, and opening 

he found an embassy from the King of the Belgians, the way for commerce. His exploits in building 


who had been planning an expedition to open up roads, some of which were over mountains and 

the Congo country to trade and who wanted Stan- across rocky chains, won for him from the natives 

ley to take command. With great reluctance, for the title of " Rock Breaker." At the head of the 

the explorer now desired to enjoy the sweets of cataracts nearest the west coast the river widens 

civilized life for a season, Stanley undertook the into a broad lake, studded with islands, and known 

management of the International Association, as as Stanley Pool. At the foot of the cataracts is a 



! 55 

trading-post, called Vivi ; and large steamers can 
ascend the river to Vivi, while above that point, 
as far as Stanley Falls, steamboats of lighter draft 
are now running in considerable numbers. When 
we remember that the distance from Stanley Pool 
to Stanley Falls is nearly one thousand miles of 
savage river, we can understand why the great ex- 
plorer should say, "We found the Congo having 
only canoes; to-day there are eight steamers." But 
since then the number of steamers has been multi- 
plied many times. 

A railroad has been planned to carry freight 
around the cataracts. Soon, trading-stations will 
be scattered along the five thousand miles of navi- 
gable waters of the great river. Stanley found a vast 
country that had no owner. The river drains a re- 
gion containing more than a million square miles, 
much of which is well peopled. The Congo Free 
State, founded by Stanley's friend, Leopold II., 
King of the Belgians, lies chiefly south of the great 
bend of the river, and contains an area of one mil- 
lion five hundred and eight thousand square miles; 
its population is more than forty-two millions. The 
articles collected from the African trade are ivory, 
palm-oil, gum-copal, rubber, beeswax, cabinet- 
woods, hippopotamus teeth and hides, monkey- 
skins, and divers other things. These are bought 
with goods, such as colored beads, brass and cop- 
per wire, cotton cloth, cutlery, guns, ammunition, 
and a great variety of articles known as " notions " 
or " trade-goods." The basis of all buying and 
selling in the Congo Free State is free trade; all 
nations that participated in the Berlin Congo Con- 
ference have right to trade and barter and 
establish posts within the boundaries of that ter- 
ritory, vast and rich, made accessible through the 
labors of Stanley. 

During his six years' service in Africa, under the 
patronage of the King of the Belgians. Stanley 
made brief visits to Europe and the United States. 
It was while he was in this country, in the winter 
of 1886-87, that he was summoned back to Europe 
to take command once more of an African expedi- 
tion ; this time to rescue another white man lost in 
the heart of the Dark Continent. This was Emin 
Pasha, governor of the Province of Equatorial 
Africa. Emin is the Egyptian name of Dr. 
Schnitzler; Pasha, as we have said, is the title 
of a civil or military officer. The province, over 
which Emin Pasha or Schnitzler is governor, is 
one of the outlying possessions of the Egyptian 
Government. When the revolt in the Soudan 
took place and Gen. Gordon was besieged in 
Khartoum, the Province of Emin Pasha was cut 
off from the rest of Egypt, and there he has been 
ever since, shut up in the region due north of the 
Albert Nyanza. Its capital is Lado, on the 

affluent leading from the Albert Nyanza to the 
White Nile. Here Emin Pasha has been closed 
in by hostile tribes, without sufficient ammunition 
or other supplies to enable him to cut his way out, 
or to traverse the routes that may be open through 
regions not hostile. 

Finally, to rescue Emin Pasha, subscriptions 
were started in Europe. The largest subscriber to 
the Emin Pasha relief fund is Mr. William Mackin- 
non, a wealthy Scotchman, who is president of a 
great line of steamers, the Peninsular and Oriental. 
The Burdett-Coutts family are also large contribu- 
tors. The fact that Mr. Mackinnon, a private 
citizen, gave so much money to the fund has 
moved some people to think that the British Gov- 
ernment, and not Mr. Mackinnon, is really backing 
up this new expedition ; and that the real object is 
to come in the rear of Khartoum, as we have 
already said, and retake it from the rebels who 
have held it ever since it fell into the hands of the 
victorious false prophet (El Mahdi) in 1884. 

Stanley sailed once more for Africa in January, 
1887, making his headquarters for the organizing 
of his expedition at Zanzibar, where he has so 
many true friends among the Arabs and the blacks. 
The supplies for the expedition were shipped 
directly to the Congo and carried up-stream by 
steamers. At Zanzibar, Stanley did his recruiting 
only. At Zanzibar, too, Stanley's old friend, Tip- 
poo Tib, was met, and Stanley signed an agree- 
ment with him making him governor of Stanley 
Falls, to defend that point against all comers, 
Arabs or natives, a salary being guaranteed him 
then and there. 

Accompanied by Tippoo Tib, the great explorer 
went to the mouth of the Congo, by the way of the 
Cape of Good Hope, reaching Banana Point, at 
the mouth of the Congo, March 18, 1887, and 
soon after ascending the river on which he had 
encountered so many hardships and endured so 
much suffering. His force consisted of nearly one 
thousand men, and his supplies, arms, and ammu- 
nition, intended for the relief of Emin Pasha, were 
enormous in quantity. One of the arms provided 
for his own use was a revolving many-chambered 
gun, of the Mitrailleuse pattern. This terrible 
engine would be so great a novelty among the 
savages who annoyed Stanley on his first voyage 
down the great river that it was thought they might 
be subdued into good behavior when they beheld 
its working. 

The exact line of travel to be pursued by Stan- 
ley in his search for Emin Pasha is not known. 
The explorer, for reasons of his own, chose to keep 
that a secret. But it was generally supposed that 
he would strike for Wadelai, on the White Nile, 
just above Albert Nyanza. At any rate, he dis- 



appeared somewhere into the vague unknown of 
the region lying between the Upper Congo and 
that lake. More than a year has now passed since 
we heard any tidings of the White Pasha, except 
such wild rumors as have come out of the darkness 
of the continent. It seems strange that a captain, 
at the head of more than a thousand men, can so 
completely disappear in the interior of a continent 
that he should be lost and never heard of for so 
long a time. Where is he, if alive ? And if Stan- 
ley has perished, where are the many men that 
were with him? Where the goods and munitions of 
war? No wonder people are asking these quest' ns. 

But bad news came from one of Stanley's aiding 
expeditions not long ago. This expedition, com- 
manded by Major Barttelot, one of Stanley's 
trusty lieutenants, left the Upper Congo, last April, 
with supplies for Emin Pasha, which Stanley had 
left behind for that purpose. On the 19th of July, 
it appears, Major Barttelot was attacked and killed 
by his own carriers. The expedition being thus 
broken up, one source of supplies for Stanley and 
Emin Pasha was cut off. 

Probably no man has ever excelled Stanley in 
his wise treatment of the Africans. He seems to 
have a natural instinct of the best way to manage 
these people, who combine great childishness 
with natural ferocity. Stanley is firm, but kind, 
considerate, and generous. The natives know that 
he is strong, and they have faith in his honesty 
and truth. He has managed the savages with 
wonderful skill. The slave-traders hate and fear 
him, and many people have thought that if he 
were ever surprised and cut off in Africa it would 
be by the malice of these bad men, who fear for 
their trade. Stanley, like Livingstone, saw enough 

of the horrors of the slave-trade to be in deadly 
earnest to do all that lay in his power to stop it. 
Tippoo Tib, the Arab trader, has long been a 
slave-dealer, though he has pretended to give up 
that horrible traffic since he has been associated 
with Stanley. Very likely, if he ever got a chance 
to go into the slave-trade again, without being 
found out, he would do it. And, if Stanley stood 
in his way, some men think Tippoo Tib would 
not hesitate even to kill Stanley, and so be rid of 
him. Tippoo Tib is now a very great man in Cen- 
tral Africa. He is enormously rich, and he can 
raise a force of many thousands of men whenever 
he has occasion to call for them. 

It is singular that it should now be thought 
necessary to send a search expedition for Stanley, 
after all that he has done in that direction himself. 
But Leopold, King of the Belgians, and others, 
devoted friends of Stanley, propose to do this very 
thing, unless news of the White Pasha's safety 
comes to us. 

When Stanley was in this country, soon after 
his discovery of Livingstone, he was full-cheeked, 
rosy in color, and his hair was dark and handsome. 
When next he came, after his memorable trip 
through the heart of the Dark Continent, the 
ruddy hue of his face was gone, and his beautiful 
hair was nearly white. But the brightness of his 
eyes was not dimmed, and the alert and sinewy 
limbs were as agile as of old. He has borne priva- 
tions and great hardships well, but they have left 
their mark on his face; and countenance and head 
are old long before their time. 

It would be a great loss to the world of com- 
merce and of Christian endeavor and human ac- 
tivity if the White Pasha should return no more. 


By Mary Hartwell Catherwood. 

Chapter VII. 


THOUGH a French-Canadian never hurries, and 
may accomplish no more in a week than the ner- 
vous, driving American in half a day, he keeps pace 
with nature by rising with the sun. The cackle 
of French voices begins at early cock-crowing. 

Alvine waked in the dawn. Her ankle was by 
this time quite painful, but she crept off the feather 
bed and put on her dried and crumpled clothes. 

Mother Ursule could be heard disturbing the 
dewy mountain-silence outside, filling her oven with 
sticks. By the time Alvine limped outdoors, and 
sat down near the pig-pen, which was under the 
same roof as the oven, the housewife had left this 
task and was cooking breakfast. 

Two bristle-backed swine stared at Alvine, and 
returned a grunt for her polite good-morning. 
The pig of the French-Canadian seldom gets fat. 
He has, in many cases, the freedom of the roads, 
but his development runs to hair and ears, and he 
looks sharply able to take care of himself. 

The outdoor oven was built on supports, high off 
the ground, of stone covered with plaster. Its 
dome top was sheltered by a roof of boards, and it 
had a large iron door fastened by a latch. When 
the wood within it burned out it would be heated 
to such a degree that tall loaves of bread could 
crust themselves in its slowly lowering even tem- 

Pelletier descended the gallery steps to open his 
blacksmith shop, and paused beside the oven to 
ask how his guest had slept, and if the bite of a 
sweet-tempered dog like Gervas was working her 
damage. The shop was built with the hill for a 
rear wall ; so its roof was below them and the black- 
smith could have walked out upon it as upon a 
balcony. But, instead, he opened a door under the 
eaves and entered his smithy by a stairway of planks 
inside. He then set wide a door through which a 
pony might squeeze, and looked out on the Beau- 
pre road, on glistening flats stretching riverward 
behind his opposite neighbor's house, and on St. 
Lawrence itself, delightful to the eyes in morning 

Pelletier's forge was a fireplace scooped high in 
the side of the wall. So stained with ancient 

VOL. XVI.— 17. *s 

smoke was the interior of the shop that when the 
noon sky arched its bluest, and plenteous light 
penetrated everywhere else, a handful of fire half- 
way between ground and rafters made there the 
sing : spot of positive color in a dense negation of 
blackness. In front of the shop hung its sign: 
" E. Pelletier, Forgeron." 

Had Alvine been in a boat on the St. Lawrence 
she could now have seen the 
mists rise off the mountains, 
experiencing surprise, perhaps, 
as points revealed themselves 
through the bank of grayness, and 
first one well-defined ridge and 


then another over it appeared — stable lines in the 
midst of changing vapor. But she could only look 
at the eastern spread of the river flushing with 
sun-rise, and uphill as high as Mother Blanchet's 
overhanging residence, for there the sky-line 
abruptly presented itself to her eye. Rows of 
potato plants stretched up and down the incline. 




It seemed probable that the potatoes, as they ri- 
pened, would swell out of their earthen pockets and 
obligingly roll down to the Pelletiers' door. There 
was a high ledge behind the house, a waterfall 
coming down it in continuous short leaps, clear as 
dew where it trickled, its course intensely marked 
with green. 

Above the potato slope, and just under Mother 
Blanchet's fence, some logs were built to form a 
terrace where growing things could sit nursed on 
a level lap in the sun. Here flourished Mother 
Ursule's garden : onions, lettuces, cabbages, and 
melons also, for their vines dripped down the 

Gervas came awkwardly to Alvine as she sat by 
the pig pen, and snuffed politely at her skirts; to 
which she replied that the ankle did hurt, but she 
comprehended it was a mistake on his part. Ger- 
vas's wagon stood in its own stable above the black- 
smith shop ; a half-excavated shed well thatched 
with pine boughs, but with the front open. 

Mother Ursule brought cross-barred and striped 
woolen blankets from all the beds in the house, and 
hung them over the gallery to air. Then her array 
of loaves came out in her arms to the oven. She 
nodded kindly to Alvine all the way down the 
path, and was pleased when her guest lifted the 
oven latch for her, and showed its glowing heart 
ready to render utmost service. 

While Mother Ursule was raking out coals and 
putting in bread, a tiny old man dressed in gray 
appeared on the gallery. He wore moccasin shoes, 
laced high around the leg, and a girdle which 
held his blouse in at the waist. But the striking 
points of his apparel, and the points which gave it 
character, were a red cotton handkerchief tied 
around his head and breeches cut short oft" at the 
knee. Thick gray stockings ascended and covered 
him well, yet without taking away a juvenile air 
which made this little old man seem rejoicing in 
his first trousers. They were not fitted to the 
slope of the limbs, but gave these a wide and gen- 
erous outlet, apparently promising that the little 
old man should not soon outgrow their width. 

As soon as he saw Mother Ursule he showed his 
gums in a smile. He had no teeth left. His face 
was like the face of an angel, if angels' faces are 
ever tanned to the color of a hickory-nut and in- 
closed in snow-white strands of thin hair. It held 
the eagerness of childhood tempered by that 
knowledge of sorrow which leaves its stamp after 
the sorrow is long outlived. His entire person ex- 
pressed lightness, and his stature was so small that 
altogether the queer little ground-colored man be- 
came one's type of a fairy man. 

" Good-morning, good-morning," cried Mother 
Ursule. " It is a fine day, Petit-Pere." 

He answered without lisp or mumble, for long 
use had readjusted his vocal organs so that no 
parts were missed. 

" Good-morning, my daughter Ursule. All the 
world is sweet." 

" It is your father, madame ? " inquired Alvine, 
surprised by an inmate whose presence she had 
not suspected. 

"It is my husband's grandfather, mademoiselle. 
He is eighty years old. He is," said Mother Ur- 
sule, putting her knuckles on her sides and stand- 
ing straight, to give her entire attention to the 
subject, " as swift on foot as any young man 
along the Beaupre road. Willingly, like a little 
son, he does my errands. Monsieur Pelletier, 
indeed, is much more like the grandfather. We 
call him Petit-Pere instead of Grandpere, because 
he is so small and has long seemed to be growing 
young, and more like our child than our venerable 
father. It is fifteen years since our calamity, and 
he had then made a beginning en enfance.* No 
one yet calls him childish ; for truly, even Mother 
Blanchet will tell you, he has been as far back as 
our memories go never other than a sweet child. 
Mademoiselle, you will see this tiny creature sit 
down on the floor and lean his head against my 
knee when he is tired. About our calamity we do 
not speak. But you should know we lost all our 
family in one winter. Nine children, mademoi- 
selle, and my husband's father and mother, and 
seven brothers and sisters. We also had it, but 
three of us survive." 

" P'tite veriole ? " f whispered Alvine. 

Mother Ursule nodded several times. 

" But Petit-Pere, he never sorrowed over the loss 
of them like we sorrow for the dead. Mademoi- 
selle, every day he goes up the hill to call them. 
Sometimes he comes back crying because they 
stay away so long. On a fine morning, like this, 
he is sure of bringing them all home, and thou 
wilt hear him tell me to kill the pig and have black 
puddings ready." 

" All this makes him charming, madame," pro- 
nounced Alvine. 

" So now we will go to breakfast," said Mother 
Ursule, in a gratified tone. "And then will I 
look at the foot which I have so neglected this 

" It is nothing, madame. I can go slowly on 
with it to-day." 

" Not an inch from the house of Monsieur 
Pelletier will you move, my child, until the 
pits made by Gervas's teeth are healed. That 

' Childishness. No English word so well expresses it. t The Canadian-French have strong aversion to being vaccinated. They will 
not submit to it. Small-pox has consequently been a scourge among them, at times epidemic in Montreal and other places. 


! 59 

reminds me I have not beaten him with the oven- 

Gervas sat down by Alvine and looked discour- 

" Oh, madame, do not touch him," begged the 
girl. " He did but his duty. If it had not been 
for Gervas, indeed, should I have had a taste of 
thy good cream ? " 

Benevolent vanity overspread Madame Pelle- 
tier's face. 

''It is good cream," she affirmed, with the air 
of a righteous person who will not be so foolish as 
to deny her own virtues. " And Gervas did us 
no bad service when he dragged thee to our house, 
poor, trembling rabbit. But this to thee, mon- 
sieur," she added, shaking her finger at the dog, 
who snapped in embarrassed fashion at a fly, and 
then fixed his gaze on a gnarled, wind-stunted 
apple-tree which grew behind the oven. " Keep 
thy meddlesome teeth out of pilgrims henceforth. 
And call now thy master to his breakfast." 

Gervas got up, relieved as a boy who has escaped 
a whipping, trotted to the roof of the blacksmith 
shop and uttered three yelps. 

Up came Pelletier promptly, and they went in 
to their first meal, of strong tea, dark bread, and 
coarse beefsteak dressed in a sour gravy. 

Pelletier put his arm affectionately across the 
shoulder of his diminutive grandfather and led him 
to his usual place at the table, while explaining the 
custom of the house to their guest in English. 

" 'E go preach, Petit-Pere. Have the binnydic- 

Accordingly, Petit-Pere pushed his red hand- 
kerchief back from his temples and said the con- 
secrating word over the meal with his dark palms 
standing upright. 

Chapter VIII. 


LAVENDER daisies, shading almost to the thought 
of crimson, with gold-colored centers, were thick 
upon the hills. In damp places, though distant 
from the pools made by shut-in glens, grew plenty 
of buttercups, their humid yellow shining always 
freshly polished. 

Alvine could see this enameled robe lying around 
the feet of the mountain, knobbed with rocks, 
ornamented with clusters of trees and seamed with 
gullies, as she washed her clothes. For Mother 
Ursule had declared she must be well laundered 
before she went farther on her pilgrimage, so crum- 
pled and mud-stained had the rain left her. She 
put on a petticoat and sack of Mother Ursule's 
which wrapped her around twice. The housewife 

* Contraction of prenez 

dressed her ankle in fresh cloths and fresh grease 
after washing it with cold water. 

" Oh, madame ! " exclaimed Alvine, as a door 
was opened in the plank wall at the end of the 
kitchen. For through this square hole one could 
see the mountain-spring descending from rock to 
rock, from fern nook to moss nest, between over- 
hanging bushes on which elderberries, scarlet as a 
smear of blood among green leaves, startled the 
eye. They seemed no kin to the elder-bush which 
fills western fence-angles with white-lace balloons 
during early summer and brown-red, wild juiced 
fruit in August weather. The sight that startled 
Alvine was a wooden spout conducting the water 
to Madame Pelletier's hand, and pouring away 
into some unseen channel with ceaseless music. 

" Yes, yes, yes," said Mother Ursule, as she re- 
ceived her basin of cold hill-water, "it is very good 
to have it so, and all winter long doth it pour thus 
without asking, until the heart of the earth becomes 
solid with cold. Even then the least kind shining 
will bring a trickle down, and when spring loosens 
all ice, how it doth crack and clatter ! " 

Petit-Pere stood about the broad-boarded floors 
and watched Alvine from the moment she was put 
before his twinkling eyes. He went obediently 
down to the oven and took note of the bread's 
progress when asked to do this by his daughter ; 
but presently he was back, lifted by the door-sill 
between rooms as by a pair of skates. Wherever 
there is any door-sill in a French-Canadian cottage, 
it is three or four inches high. 

Madame Pelletier and Alvine went uphill to the 
washing-shed, and Petit-Pere, still clinging to the 
unusual presence of a young person, said he would 
take his knitting and go along. 

The washing-shed was set near a sandy basin in 
the descending rivulet, scarcely as large as the 
iron kettle in which Mother Ursule heated water. 
But it was a basin always filling itself as soon as 
emptied. The kettle stood on a four-legged iron 
support much like a toy bedstead. Mother Ursule 
took a gourd to dip water into it, and lighted 
the fire. 

"Gracia'!" she shouted as the slippery border 
of the rivulet half betrayed her, and her great bulk 
slid downhill several inches. 

" Glissant," she admonished Alvine, pointing to 
this sleek track after escaping from it, and wagging 
a face red with the exertion of catching herself. 
" p re > garde, pre' garde."* 

The washing-shed covered a large stationary 
tub beside which there was a railed place for the 
cake of soap and the clothes-beater — abroad, flat, 
wooden tool having a short handle. 

Alvine was able to stand by the tub and scour 
her garments, but this the house-mother would not 

garde, "take care." 




allow. She took the labor into her own hands They examined goods at their leisure, children 
from first wetting the coarse cotton to the final spreading out gay cotton prints to covet, their el- 
hanging out her drying-pole, ders scolding down prices, and the peddler — a 
Two interruptions drew her downhill: her Frenchman who thus distributed Quebec merchan- 

baked loaves had to be carried in from the oven, 
and a peddler stopped his wagon below the gate. 
Her neighbors across the road came out, Pelletier 
left his shop, Mother Blanchet waddled downhill, 
a picturesque sight in white cap, her cotton sack 
girdled into a homespun petticoat by a long brown 
cord ; and three families swarmed like bees at the 
cart's end, nearly filling up the narrow road. 

dise through the valley — declaring with face, hands, 
and nimble legs the ruinous cheapness of his wares. 
He carried tempting stuff besides wearing fabrics, 
and when the blacksmith had pried into one ob- 
long box he took a ten-cent piece from his pocket 
and exchanged it for a very small paper of bits 
carefully picked from that box. 

Alvine washed in the tub during Mother Ursule's 




engagement with the peddler. It was like being in 
the gallery of a great amphitheater and looking 
down and away at wonderful sights. Faintly blue 
vapor trailed along the island of Orleans, and she 
could see fishing-boats at patient anchor in the 
river, and a steamer rushing down-stream filled 
with people to its guards. Eastward could be 
heard at intervals the softened far-pealing of bells, 
which she knew were the chimes of Ste. Anne. 

Petit-Pere sat on a rock shaded by a dwarf tree, 
busy with his knitting-needles. A long stocking 
hung down from them between his knees, and 
though he worked slowly, zealous intention kept 
his tongue sticking out. A gray woolen cap was 
drawn over his head-kerchief for outdoor wear, its 
bagging end and tassel drooping over one ear. 
He cast his thread over and looked up smiling at 
Alvine; and she as often put her hand to her tem- 
ple, carried it downward in a curve, and made him 
a bow full of young grace. 

Pelletier was in the habit of speaking English 
when he had any secret from his grandfather, or 
wished to explain his grandfather's ways to any 
outsider. The aged Frenchman could not under- 
stand a word of even such English as the black- 
smith talked. Uphill came Pelletier,. his whiskers 
expanding in a smile, and slyly showed his paper 
packet to Alvine while the old man knitted tran- 
quilly. It held a few pieces of candy, some shaped 
like strawberries and others like slices of lemon. 

" Freet,"* said Pelletier, " confiture, and sugar. 
For make some bread to Petit-Pere; eat." 

" Does he like it? " inquired the girl, pleased to 
be in the secret. 

"Yes, yes, yes; ve'y much. See you," said 
Pelletier, pointing with delight at the busy little 
man who pulled a long thread off his ball of yarn. 
" 'E don't know what might be happen now ! " 

The middle-aged grandson slipped up behind 
his pet sire and laid his paper of sweets suddenly 
upon one of the broad-trousered knees. 

Petit-Pere, letting his knitting fall to the ground, 
took hold of them. 

" A bon marche, a bon marche ! " f he cried, 
his chuckles tumbling over each other. " My son 
Elzear, that pleases me ! It is enough," he calcu- 
lated, " to fill the mouths of all my children. Now 
they will come back to father, and sit in the even- 
ing around my knees and let me count them and 
pat their heads, my sons and my daughters." 

" Eat it thyself, my Petit-Pere," urged the 
blacksmith ; but his grandfather, denying himself, 
sat plainly tempted by the coarse sweets spread on 
his knee. He looked at Alvine and weighed in 
his mind her right to a share and the wisdom of 
giving it to her or keeping it back. 

* Fruit. tA French-Canadian may use this exclamation when he 

"But she has come home. She stays in my 
sight, and the others are yet scattered. She should, 
therefore, have a bit, my good girl. But no, she 
may stay for a kind word — I will try that. And 
my chicks straying through woods and mountains, 
I need the confiture to coax them back. My son 
Elzear, this is bait for one of my boys that I saw on 
the hill yesterday. He would not come nigh then, 
but now will he come nigh me ! " The little father 
chuckled and shook his paper of candy. 

" Perhaps he saw my brother Bruno," exclaimed 

" It was surely thy brother," nodded Petit-Pere; 
" and all the other children would be thereabouts. 
I have waked in winter nights and cried about 
them because they must then be so cold. But 
these fine days they frolic, the rascals, they kick 
up their heels and are out of the old father's sight. 
There is a time to gather the hay," his treble voice 
proclaimed, "and there is a time to gather my 
children into the house. I must be about it while 
the sun shines. A girl to-day ; a boy to-morrow ; 
I shall soon have them." 

" Eat some confiture," still urged the blacksmith, 
in a coaxing attitude with his hands on his knees. 
"Do you wish to drive me away, also — to eat none 
of my gift? " 

"No, no, no," cried the father in alarm. 
"What would I do if they all left me? But see 
you, my son Elzear, this piece is for Luce, and 
this for Flavie, and this for Louis, and this for 
Narcisse " 

"And this one for Petit-Pere," said the black- 
smith, picking up a lemon slice and holding it 
under his nose. The old face, which was no more 
shrunken and wrinkled than a winter-kept russet, 
began to outline its cheek with smiling creases, the 
mouth opened and accepted its bite of candy ; but 
Petit-Pere got up and carried his knitting and the 
rest of the sugared stuff downhill with him. 

Pelletier and Alvine watched him stand at the 
gate until his daughter Ursule could leave the 

"My daughter Ursule," he said to her as she 
approached, " will you put my confiture on the 
highest shelf until I go out to look for the children ? 
And here, my daughter Ursule, my stocking, is 
it not ready for the heel ? " 

Madame Pelletier took the candy packet and 
stood still to examine the stocking, her little grand- 
father, whose head did not tower to her shoulder, 
waiting by, with the ball in his docile hands. 

"This is a fine long stocking," she observed. 

" Is it not ? " he cried, showing his gums. 

" Yes, it is time to set the heel. But thou hast 
dropped two stitches, my Petit-Pere." 

means a pretty thing, and without any reference to its cheapness. 




"Have I done so, indeed? That might make 
holes to let the frost through to my Hermene- 
gilde's legs." 

" I will pick them up for thee," promised his 

" A long time have I been at this one, and it 
makes only three. How many legs have all my 
children, my daughter Ursule?" 

" Fret not thy precious heart about that. Am I 
not also knitting and ever knitting to help thee keep 
the family covered ? " 

" Yes, yes," said Petit-Pere, his anxieties quieted. 
The small Canadian father trotted by her side into 
the house. 

Chapter IX. 


Out of the dimness and uncertainty which lay 
far off on Megantic, Marcelline Charland and her 
rescuers saw some object coming toward them. 
The sinking splendor of burning woods reflected 
upon the lake, made another forest seem to glow 
under water. If a tree toppled down in showers 
of coals on the land, a similar tree shook out its 
sparks under the ripples. And it was a strange 
sight to see a boat push across this submerged 
picture of fire, its oarsman riding toward a burning 
world upon a sea of flame. 

Monsieur Lavoie and both girls kept calling to 
him, though there was no chance of his passing 
them by unseen, so tall and dark were their fig- 
ures, thrown out by the red glow behind them. 

" How many people are there in the boat, my 
Aurele ? " inquired Monsieur Lavoie. 

" Papa, I can see but one man, and he is a very 
ugly fellow." 

" But the splash of his oars is a beautiful sound." 

" He is an Indian," whispered Marcelline, as the 
boat came across the gravel, and the next moment 
it crunched in sand. 

Monsieur Lavoie, hearing it thus grounded, said: 

" Have you come to help us out of this trouble, 
my man ? " 

"Yes, monsieur," he replied in guttural French, 
holding the prow of his boat while he waited for 
them to get in. " Hot here, very hot." 

" It has been hotter. Are you from Agnes ? " 

"No, monsieur. I from camp." 

" If the other fugitives reached the town, I 
thought they would perhaps miss us and send a 
boat for us." 

"Agnes all on fire, monsieur. Folks fighting 
fire there, yet." 

" Where, then, shall we go?" exclaimed Mon- 
sieur Lavoie. " These children are a mass of 

blisters. My face is so burned that I have no use 
of my eyes. We ought all to have medical help 
at once." 

" Doctor over there," said the Indian, pointing 
across the lake. " Doctor in camp with families 
over there." 

"Who are you?" inquired Monsieur Lavoie, 
before intrusting the children and his own blind 
helplessness to their rescuer. " What is your 
name ? " 

"Name Francois. I am Algonquin, monsieur. 
My mother was Algonquin chief's daughter," ex- 
plained the son of that poor, overburdened Prin- 
cess Sally, whose latest labors he had already 
rubbed badly on the elbows and soiled to dirtiness 
over sleeves and front. 

" And is your doctor an Algonquin, also ? " con- 
tinued Monsieur Lavoie. 

"No, monsieur," replied this poor descendant 
of a once great and gentle tribe. " Doctor Eng- 
lishman from Sharebrooke town. Families from 
Sharebrooke town camping on lake shore." 

" Do you belong to the camp ? " 

" Yes, monsieur. I fish and tend to boats. I 
go to these woods and hunt before woods burn 

" Take us to the camp, then. They will surely 
take pity on such castaways as we are." 

" Yes, monsieur," said Francois. He helped 
the girls to a seat and guided Monsieur Lavoie into 
the stern. " It only three miles across to camp. 
It five miles to Agnes." 

As he took his oars and shot his party out over 
the reflected fire, Aurele and Marcelline on a bench 
together gazed at what they left behind. Though 
oases of grayness marked where the flames had 
done their work and left their ashes, this milky 
way was by no means a continuous track. The 
great roaring force was stalking eastward and 
southward, seeming to crumble the world as it 
moved, and its hot breath quivered almost like the 
aurora at the zenith, stars dancing tipsily through 
such a medium. 

The farther their boat receded, the vaster did 
this sight of fire become. 

Aurele, opposite Monsieur Lavoie on her bench, — 
for she and Marcelline sat with their backs toward 
the Indian, — gazed a long time; then she left it 
and crept to tell her father. 

" Can't you see one little bit, poor papa? The 
burning of Rome must have been a chip afire, com- 
pared to this sight." 

" Would I look at it if I could — for very spite — 
Aurele ? " 

"Yes, you would, papa. Oh, how I want you 
to see it i It would live forever in your mind. 
That seems to me very cruel : that this monster 



fire should sear you in the face so you can not see " Ah, papa, you miss much." 
its beauty." " Yes, my Aurele. We, of necessity, miss much. 
" The rapture of coming to mature years and Everyone is obliged to do so. We are not bound- 
being middle-aged," said the poet, "lies in this one less receptacles." 
fact — you find out there are so many things in Francois ceased rowing to look into the water. 






this world you don't want. When I was your age, 
Aurele, I wanted everything. My capacity was 
shark-like ; nothing sated me. Now I am your 
venerable parent with much to enjoy and much to 
be grateful for ; and the few things which I can 
not have, I do not want : chief among them the 
sight of this fire. I have had enough of it ! " 

" Fish come up to-night," he remarked. " Big 
fire draws fish. Plenty to catch." 

"Were you fishing when you heard us call?" 
inquired Monsieur Lavoie. 

" Yes, monsieur. When I saw big fire I knew 
fish come up. Pile of fish in front of boat. I caught 
plenty. Then I heard folks call." 



" Did you hear any one else calling along that 
shore ? " 

" No, monsieur. I saw some loaded boats go 
back to Agnes before it was night." 

"Probably all the other people got off in those 

As distance tarnished the splendor of the forest 
fire, Aurele turned her face toward the beach they 
were approaching. Marcelline sat quietly on her 
bench, crying under her breath with the pain of 
her burns. Some water had soaked through the 
boat's seams, and in this scanty moisture she set 
the bottoms of her crisped shoes ; but the anguish 
of all her hurts was unceasing, and hard for a little 
girl to bear in secret. 

A star on the lake edge with white blots behind 
it turned satisfactorily into a camp-fire before a 
semicircle of tents. The tinkling sound of guitar 
music came from a group of figures sitting around 
the camp-fire, and at intervals a chorus of voices 
swelled high, drowning the guitar. 

Some children came scampering down to the 
water's edge, a man walking behind them. 

" How many fish did you catch, Francois ? " they 

" He has brought you three muskallonge, 
already baked," said Monsieur Lavoie in English, 
lifting his voice to reach the children's ears and 
his hat in general. courtesy. 

At that sound, and at sight of strange folks, they 
hung back from the boat, and the man hurried up 
to help out his guests. 

He heard very few words before taking all three 
patients to the camp-fire, and then into separate 
tents to dress their burns. The guitar-playing and 
singing broke up in a hurried search for soft cloths. 
The English physician had not come camping 
without preparation for all kinds of accidents. His 
wife, and the young girls, her sisters, and a jolly 
man, his cousin, who had made the camp-fire as 
merry as the hearth of any ancient castle when 
minstrels were in hall, now made it as bounteously 
hospitable. They called up the sleeping cook, 
who dressed Francois's fish ; and they spread for 
a great supper the long table of boards nailed to 
low posts set in the ground, which had a tree to 
canopy it. Those who were not needed to help 
the doctor ran from storehouse to table with 
loaves, pots of jam, butter, preserves of rose and 
ginger, tinned meats, and everything which the 
camp afforded. 

The cook in his shed, upon a rusty stove which 
showed that rain had leaked upon it, but which was 
yet the key-note of comfort in camp, browned 
muskallonge and made hot coffee. 

The children, staying up beyond bedtime to see 

what Francois brought, were having still longer 
holiday to see what was done for those refugees 
from the fire. They hung approvingly around the 
supper. There were plenty of cots in the tents, 
every train to Agnes bringing friends who came out 
here for a day's or a night's experience of camping. 

When the doctor was done dressing his patients, 
two mummies walked out of two tents and were 
led together to the table. 

"Papa," said Aurele, " you look worse than the 
papooses we saw away below Tadoussac." 

" I am sorry I have not yet the pleasure of seeing 
how you look, my daughter." 

" Papa, you may see me with your mind. I look 
like one of those young French babies in the west- 
ern part of the province that they seal up tight in 
bolsters, you remember." 

Both spoke in English to avoid rudeness toward 
their entertainers, and one of the young English 
girls presently spoke to them in French, to compli- 
ment them by the use of their own language. 

Marcelline Charland was unable to leave the 
tent where the doctor dressed her burns. She lay 
on a cot packed in cloths. This child of few- 
pleasures, who had scarcely in her life been waited 
on except by Bruno and Alvine, and was used to 
being at the nod and call of exacting people, now 
found herself tended and fed like an infant by 
people much above her. 

Two children stood by, after their elders left 
the tent, and told her how much fun it was to camp 
beside Megantic. Every summer they came to 
this spot. It was called their cove. Sunset was 
the time to go in bathing. Then the water was 
warm and the sand like velvet. You could put on 
your bathing-suit and wade all around the cove, 
never going over your head. They were both 
learning to swim, and offered to give points to 
Marcelline if she felt able to take a plunge to- 
morrow. Then you could course through the 
woods above camp, and find lovely pink and brown 
fungus shelves sticking out on trees, and numberless 
lichens on rocks ; and something made a noise in 
those woods that was n't a cow either, so you 'd better 
be back near camp at sundown, for some men at 
Agnes shot a wildcat once. And they knew where 
you could get all the hill strawberries you wanted. 

To this talk Marcelline listened with respect, not 
understanding a word. 

When the English-Canadian children were put 
into their own cot-beds she watched a lamp 
screwed to the center-pole, and listened to voices 
outside around the camp-fire, and to water lap- 
ping the sand. Even pain has its pleasant side; for, 
though Marcelline was feverish during the night, 
she had a grateful sense of being well cared for. 

( To be continued. ) 


By Arthur L. Shumway. 


" Ohio ! " * exclaimed a familiar voice. 

I glanced up from the letter which I was engaged 
in writing as I sat upon the front veranda of the 
Windsor House, one of the principal foreign hotels, 
situated on the " bund " in the Port of Yokohama. 
The voice was that of a young Englishman whose 
acquaintance I had made on board the steamer 
that carried me from the shores of Uncle Sam's 
domain to the Land of the Rising Sun. Return- 
ing by way of the United States from England, 
whither he had gone on the business of the large 
Yokohama mercantile house with which his father 
was connected, he had happened to take at San 
Francisco the steamer upon which I had engaged 
passage. The acquaintance thus begun ripened to 
a fast friendship after our arrival at Yokohama. 
His home was on " The Bluff," the foreign resi- 
dence portion of Yokohama ; and, although mak- 
ing the hotel my nominal headquarters, I was 
very frequently his guest at his table and by his 
fireside. Whenever I made a tour of exploration 
through the town, I called first at the business 
house where he was employed, to see whether he 
could accompany me. Almost invariably he man- 

aged to arrange his work so that he could go with 
me. With his help I could better understand the 
significance of the strange things I saw, and draw 
truer conclusions from the experiences which fell 
to my lot. On this occasion he had taken the 
trouble to come for me to the hotel. 

"Ohio," I said, returning the Japanese saluta- 
tion, and rising to receive him. 

" What are you doing here at this hour?" he 

"Writing some letters for to-morrow's mail," I 
replied. " What else should I be doing? " 

" You should be on your way with me to the 
railway station," he answered. 

" What is the attraction there?" I asked. 

"The arrival of the great 'Tenshisama' from 
Tokio by special train," was the reply. 

"What! — the Mikado?" 

"Even he, the son of heaven; the nin-wo, or 
king of men; the kotei, or august ruler." 

" What brings him here ? " 

"Had you forgotten that this is the first day of 
the Yokohama races? The Mikado perhaps has 
come to see the races." 





" When does the imperial train arrive?" 

''It is due here at eleven o'clock, and it will 
arrive exactly on time. It leaves Tokio at 10: 15. 
That allows three-quarters of an hour for the run 
of eighteen miles, an average speed of twenty-four 
miles an hour without stops. You will perceive 
that the Emperor of Japan is n't so ambitious to 
travel at great speed as most sovereigns are 
supposed to be." 

" What time is it now? " 

"Nearly a quarter to eleven. We shall hardly 
have time to reach the station." 

all sorts of questions about the Oriental monarch 
we were about to see, — just as I always availed 
myself of the opportunity to draw upon his inex- 
haustible fund of general information regarding 
the island, when we were going about together. 
" The present Mikado's name is Mutsuhito," he 
said. " The name may be translated ' benevolent 
man.' He is the one hundred and twenty-third 
emperor in the imperial line, and boasts — or 
could boast if he chose to do so — of belonging to 
the oldest dynasty of monarchs in the world. The 
first emperor in this line was a contemporary of 




" I will go, of course. It would never do to 
miss seeing the Mikado, when there is such an 

" Certainly it would not. Besides, there is no 
haste about finishing your letters. The morn- 
ing paper says that the O. and O. mail-steamer is 
still in Hong Kong and will arrive here three days 

So we started, post-haste, for the railway sta- 
tion. On the way I peppered my companion with 

Nebuchadnezzar, — think of it ! The name Mikado 
itself means 'honorable gate,' like the Egyptian 
term ' pharaoh,' and reminds one of the Turkish 
'sublime porte.' The first Mikado was Jimmu 
Tenno. As he began to reign about 660 B. C, 
Japanese chronology begins professedly at that 
point. The first seventeen Mikados are said to 
have lived to be over one hundred years of age, — 
one attaining the advanced age of one hundred 
and forty-one years. Seven of the one hundred 





and twenty-three sovereigns in this great 

dynasty have been women." 

"Has n't the present monarch any other 

name besides Mutsuhito? " I inquired. 

" No," was the reply. " The Mikados 

have personal names, but no family names. 

When they die, however, each receives an 

okuri-na, or posthumous name, by which he 

is known in history, and no mikado can bear 

the name of a predecessor. In two instances, 

however, Mikados have reigned twice, and 

have received two posthumous titles each. 

During his life the Chinese characters rep- 
resenting the personal name of the Mikado 

were forbidden to be used (or if used, a stroke 

had to be omitted), the reigning Mikado being 

designated as kinjo, 'the present emperor,' 

or kotei, ' august ruler,' and the first time in 

history that the sovereign's name appeared 

during his life-time was when Mutsuhito, in 

February, 1868, delivered to the foreign 

ministers a document in which he announced 

that the dual government was at an end, and that " Well, although as early as 25 B. C. four 

he himself had assumed the supreme government.'' corps for the defense of the country against the 

aborigines had been created, and each placed 
under a shogun or general, it was not until 
the seventh century that a military class 
began to make itself felt. From the twelfth 
century onward, two great military families 
were rivals for the military supremacy, that 
one being successful which had possession of 
the Mikado for the time being. But it was 
not till 1596, when the Tokugawa family in 
the person of Iyeyasii overcame all rivals, 
and made their headquarters at Yedo, that 
the so-called dual government really began. 
In 1854 the then-ruling shogun or 'tycoon' 
gave great offense by signing the treaty with 
Perry, which formally 'opened 'Japan, enab- 
ling eastern and western nations alike to estab- 
lish commercial and diplomatic relations with 
the little island empire which had for so many 
centuries preserved its national isolation. 
A period of anarchy and bitter antagonism 
to foreigners followed, however, for over ten 
years. The western nations resented the 
barbarous way in which their subjects, 
resident in Japan, were treated, and sent an 
expedition against the empire. Suddenly, by 
one of those freaks of sentiment which have 
won for the Japanese the reputation of being 
fickle, a reaction in favor of the despised 
foreigner set in, the shogunate was sup- 
pressed, the two hundred and seventy-eight 
daimios, or military princes, in the empire, 
"How long did the dual government of Japan from patriotic motives resigned their estates into 

last ? " I asked, now thoroughly interested. the hands of the emperor, and harmony pre- 





vailed all around. This unification of the national 
government took place in 186S." 

"And just what is the form of government 
now ? " I asked. 

"The Mikado is supreme in temporal and 
spiritual matters alike; Shintoism is the state 
religion ; * there is an executive ministry consisting 
of eight departments, a Senate of thirty mem- 
bers, a Council of State (unlimited in number), 
and a Great Council, the real governing body. This 
Great Council has three sections — the Right, 
which consists of the executive ministry ; the Left, 
which consists of the council of state ; and the Cen- 
ter, composed of the prime minister, the vice- 
prime minister, and a cabinet of five 'advisers.' 
Matters of great importance come before the 

origin — a mirror, a crystal ball, and a sword — are 
still cherished in the palace where the emperor is 
now living. These emblems have come to be 
viewed much as the inhabitants of Troy viewed 
the Palladium of their city." 

"What has been the history of the present 
Mikado's reign, thus far ? " 

" Mutsuhito was the second son of Mikado 
Komei Tenno. The succession is not determined 
by the order of birth in the royal family, you will 
see. The Mikado nominates his own successor. 
Mutsuhito was born November, 1S50, in the castle 
at Kioto, which had for years been the Mikado's 
capital, and therefore the sacred city of Japan. He 
grew up in the palace, never being allowed to see 
a foreigner until he was nineteen years of age. 


Mikado and the Great Council ; but unimpor- 
tant questions go to the ministers. The Mikado 
is still an absolute monarch, but he has prom- 
ised an elective parliament, to be organized in 

"Does the Mikado still claim descent direct 
from the gods? " 

In 1867 his father died, and he was declared em- 
peror under the care of a regent. He was then 
but seventeen years of age. A year later the re- 
gency was abolished. Early in 1868 Keiki San, 
the Shogun who was then in power, finding the 
chief nobles and daimios against him, retired, and 
the Mikado, as already stated, assumed the reins 

"Yes, and the sacred emblems of his spiritual of government himself, and a few days later an in- 

* Shintoism has since been disestablished, and there is now no state religion in Japan. The recent advances of Christianity in 

the Empire are marvelous. 




vitation came to each of the foreign representa- 
tives to visit Kioto, — an invitation which was 
accepted by only two, the British and Dutch 
ministers. Later, however, the French minister 
also decided to accept. On March 23, 1 868, the 
emperor gave audiences to the ambassadors of 
France and Holland. This was the first time a 
Japanese emperor ever granted an interview to 
representatives of Christian nations. Four days 
later, Sir Harry Parkes, the British minister, with 
a numerous native and foreign guard, while on his 
way to the palace to meet the Mikado according 
to appointment, was attacked by assassins, and 
only saved by the bravery of Mr. Goto Shojiro, an 
officer of the Japanese Foreign Department, who 
rode at Sir Harry's side. The next day the imperial 
decree was issued by which treaty relations were 
established with foreign powers. On April 6th 
of the same year he took the oath which is the 
basis of the present government, pledging himself 
to establish a representative government. This 
was the emancipation of Japan from ' the unciv- 
ilized customs of former times.' From the hour 
when he took that oath dates the emergence of 
the empire from the old feudal civilization, and 
the Europeanization of people and country. You 
will perceive that the distinguished gentleman 
whom we are to see to-day has witnessed some 
momentous changes in his time." 

" Yes, indeed. When was Tokio made the 
capital ? " 

" In the following year, 1869. In 1872 the 
Mikado adopted European dress and habits of life, 
at least for public service. His new palace is to be 
mainly in European style." 

By this time we had reached the vicinity of the 
station. There appeared to be no excitement, al- 
though it was generally known that His Majesty 
would soon make his appearance. I suppose there 
were not above two hundred persons gathered at the 
station, and of these by far the greater part were 
jinriki-sha runners, hucksters, coolies, attaches of 
the railway, and people in the lower walks of life 
who happened to be in the vicinity. National 
flags (a red disk on a white ground) adorned the 
front of the station, but otherwise there were no 
decorations visible anywhere in town. Two weeks 
later (November 3, 1882), when the emperor's 
thirty-second birthday was celebrated, the houses 
and stores everywhere, and the ships in the bay, 
were profusely decked. 

Just inside of the station on the stone floor stood 
the Mikado's private coach, to which a magnificent 
span of Arabian horses was attached. This coach 
and span had been sent on from Tokio by an early 
freight train, in advance of the royal party. This 
was not the equipage used by the emperor on state 

occasions, I was told, but simply His Majesty's 
ordinary carriage. The horses were very docile, 
yet they were manifestly full of mettle, and bore 
themselves with the dignity becoming animals 
privileged to wear gold-mounted harness and to 
draw the Emperor of Japan. The coach was ele- 
gant in finish, but modestly plain throughout. It 
was covered by a green silk cloth, bearing the 
Mikado's crest on either side in dull gold. The 
most gorgeous thing about the coach was the las- 
seled and embroidered box-cloth provided for the 

Near the coach were standing the coachmen, 
who had accompanied the royal equipage on its 
journey from Tokio to Yokohama, and the em- 
peror's private body-guard. The coachmen were 
immaculately dressed, wearing garments modeled 
after the foreign style. Their heavy dress-coats 
almost touched the floor, they wore white gloves, 
and the men's small size was partly overcome 
by the addition of tall silk hats with wide gold 

We had yet two or three minutes to wait, and 
my friend utilized the time by recalling some inter- 
esting reminiscences. 

" Ten years ago," he said, "the advent of the 
Mikado in Yokohama would have created a tre- 
mendous sensation. I remember very well the 
occasion when the Mikado first appeared publicly 
before a promiscuous gathering of his subjects. It 
was at Tokio, upon the completion of the Yoko- 
hama railway, eleven years ago, I think. I was 
but a mere boy then, of course. The emperor 
was seated upon a rude temporary throne erected 
in the station. As he took his seat and became 
visible, every native present prostrated himself, 
laying his face in the very dust. Mutsuhito 
not only permitted himself to be seen, but made 
a little speech to his subjects. It was a strange 
day for Japan. Few of the Japanese present had 
ever expected to live to see the day when the sa- 
cred Mikado would forsake the solitude of his 
luxurious prison-palace. Prior to that day he had 
been more of a prisoner than is the ex-king of 
Oudh in his sumptuous quarters at Calcutta." 

" I suppose his people think he is the most 
gracious and condescending of sovereigns," I ob- 

"No doubt. And yet even now he does not 
come and go as freely as most monarchs. When- 
ever he goes out he is accompanied by a body- 
guard, and maintains everywhere an impenetrable 
reserve. A tourist might stay in the capital city 
for years without beholding his sacred person, 
unless he accommodated himself to the few set times 
when His Majesty appears by announcement before 
his people." 




" How about the empress ? " 

" She is, of course, even more exclusive. The 
women belonging to the aristocracy of Japan are 
very seldom seen by travelers. Her photograph 
shows her to be a very pretty woman, and she takes 
so much interest in the young of her sex that with 
her own money she has founded a normal school 
for Japanese girls." 

At this moment the royal train rolled into the 

the trousers on each side, a broad white band 
around his soldierly cap, and the ubiquitous royal 
crest (consisting of sixteen chrysanthemum petals 
arranged in the form of a medallion) showily em- 
bellished in silver upon the lapel of his coat. This 
was he who swayed the destinies of 35,000,000 of 

I find my remembrances of the emperor's feat- 
ures somewhat at variance with the ordinary por- 


depot. First came a locomotive, plentifully dec- 
orated from smoke-stack to tender with chrysan- 
themums, laurel, and immortelles. Then followed 
seven first-class carriages, filled with high officials 
and court attendants. The imperial coach was in 
the middle of the train. 

Every head was bent low in a prolonged but 
silent greeting. The obeisances were scarcely 
deeper, however, than the Japanese make one to 
another anywhere and at any time. 

" There is nothing required now in the way of 
formal homage to the emperor," whispered my 
friend, '"and only one thing expressly prohibited 
in the way of disrespect. No subject can look 
down upon him." 

" Look down upon him ? " I repeated. 

" Yes," was the reply. " Literally, I mean. No 
Japanese is permitted to view the Mikado from 
an upper window as he passes by in the street 

"Under penalty of ?" 

" Arrest and imprisonment." 

At this point two or three functionaries stepped 
from the imperial coach, followed a moment later 
by a tall, erect young man dressed in a uniform of 
dark-blue stuff, with immense white stripes down 

traits of him which appear from time to time in 
magazine articles and in the pictorial press. He 
is decidedly not a handsome man. Indeed it was 
to my mind his bearing in spite of his face, and 
not his face at all, which gave him the air of 
dignity — I might almost say of austerity — which 
characterized him. His face was swarthy, rather 
unintellectual than strong, and adorned with a pre- 
carious growth of whiskers. As beards are not 
indigenous to the Japanese chin, I could not ad- 
mire his good taste, so much as I did his courage, 
in trying to raise a beard. I notice that his later 
photographs represent him with only a mustache. 

His Majesty, attended by an honorary guard of 
officials, walked rapidly from the car through a 
waiting-room and entered his coach, from which 
the green cloth was now removed. The other 
Tokio dignitaries entered handsome coaches pro- 
vided by some Yokohama stable, and the whole 
procession proceeded direct to the race-course, 
accompanied by an escort of soldiers, police, and 
musicians. The road that led to the track had 
been freshly graded, rolled, and graveled in honor 
of the royal party. 

Anxious to gain still another glimpse of Japanese 
royalty, I persuaded my friend to go up to Tokio 



with rac, a fortnight later, to witness the ceremonies 
in connection with the celebration of the emperor's 
birthday in that city. There are a great many 
holidays observed in the Orient, even the banks 
and leading business-houses closing on the slightest 
provocation. I think there were twenty-one so- 
called legal holidays each year in Yokohama, at 
the time of which I am now writing. During 
the three days of the Yokohama races already re- 
ferred to, for instance, every bank and prominent 
business house in the city was closed ! It goes with- 
out saying, therefore, that on the occasion of the 
emperor's birthday all business was suspended, 
and that in the capital city the native and foreign 
population alike were wholly given over to the ob- 
servance of the day. 

The principal attraction in Tokio was in the 
quarter called Hibiya, or ' : parade-ground." We 
proceeded thither in jinriki-shas. Here the impe- 
rial troops in garrison, to the number of seven thou- 
sand, were to parade before the Mikado on a large 
open square reserved for that purpose. When we 
arrived, the vicinity was thronged with great num- 
bers of men, women, and children, all arrayed in 
holiday attire. There was a reserved space in the 
most eligible part of the grounds, but as our names 
had been omitted, in some unaccountable way, 
from the list of distinguished personages to whom 
invitations and passes had been sent, we contented 
ourselves with crowding as near to the front as 

In general the sights were such as are character- 
istic of these occasions the world over. There were 
innumerable booths, where enterprising natives 
were taking advantage of the gathering to do a big 
business on a small scale ; the articles of merchan- 
dise consisting of all sorts of toys, banners, con- 
fectionery, photographs, fruits, and a thousand 
strange-looking articles besides, the classification 

of which is beyond my power. I was impressed, 
however, with the minuteness of the profits made. 
There were articles on sale with the prices marked 
in rin, the tenth part of a cent. One sen (of a 
value little less than an American cent) would 
buy a glass of a beverage corresponding to our 
lemonade, half a dozen sticks of candy, or a collec- 
tion of pulpy wads which became handsome ferns 
upon being cast into a vessel of water. 

The behavior of the crowd was rather quiet. 
There was no hurrahing, no applause, and no audi- 
ble salutation of the emperor and his staff when 
they arrived on the grounds. 

The Mikado was mounted on a fine Arabian 
horse, and came preceded, attended, and followed 
by a body-guard of policemen and lancers. The 
leading officers of state accompanied the royal ret- 
inue, all arrayed in their finest military uniforms 
and mounted on their favorite chargers. 

The parade and review were an agreeable sur- 
prise. Although the small size and smooth faces of 
the soldiers detracted somewhat from their mili- 
ary aspect, the discipline displayed was good, and 
many of the evolutions were very pleasing to the 
eye. The cavalry managed their horses admirably. 
After the review the foreign representatives pro- 
ceded to the imperial yashiki by invitation, and 
enjoyed a luncheon served in Japanese fashion. In 
the evening a splendid reception was held at the 
private residence of His Excellency the Minister 
of Foreign Affairs, which was attended by more 
than a thousand guests, native and foreign. The 
house was lavishly decorated, and the extensive 
grounds illuminated as only grounds in the Orient 
are illuminated. A feature of the reception was a 
magnificent display of fire-works, in which the 
novelties introduced and the combinations of colors 
were the subject of admiring comment on the part 
of the foreign population. 



By John R. Coryell. 

The sea-lions of San Miguel Bay were not often 
disturbed in their solitude by human visitors. Once 
in a while, curiosity or a desire for seal-oil took men 
there ; but as a rule the bay and the little island 
which it indented were deserted except by the sea- 
lions and gulls. 

One morning in August, however, the sea-lions 
awoke to find a little schooner resting as placidly 
as a sleeping gull on the calm water of the land- 
locked bay. 

The bay was calm, indeed ; but a glance toward 
the open sea told of a storm that had raged the 
night before ; and though unbroken by waves, 
there was an angry swell on the bosom of the 
usually quiet Pacific that told of a fury not yet 

It required no very keen eye to discern that the 
little schooner — "Emily" was the name painted on 
the stern — had been roughly treated by the ele- 

The topsails were torn into shreds the frayed 
ends of which told of many a fierce snap in the 
gale ; and the deck was in a confusion only to be 
produced through continued washing by storm- 
dashed waves. 

On the deck lay two boys. Each had an arm around 
a stanchion and both had the soft, regular breath- 
ing which betokens healthful sleep. And good need 
had they to sleep, for the preceding night had 
been passed in wakefulness and terror. 

" Just for fun," as Joe Rousby had said, he and 
his friend Bob Slater had rowed to the " Emily " 
as she lay at anchor in Santa Barbara Bay on the 
afternoon before, and had started for a sail, in 
spite of angry remonstrances of old Captain Mar- 
tin ; for though usually willing to let Joe have the 
schooner, he had three good objections against 
lending her at that time. 

First, he had just fitted out the " Emily " for a 
fishing cruise ; second, he saw a storm coming up ; 
and third, he did not like his property to be used 
against his wishes. 

The storm had caught the boys, and, unable to 
return to the bay, they had been driven helplessly 
about all night, until, thoroughly exhausted, they 
had dropped to sleep where they lay. 

Joe was the first to be wakened by the bright 
warm beams of the sun and the deafening chorus 

Vol. XVI.— 18. 

of barks and yelps that issued from the throats of 
the sea-lions. He sprang to his feet and looked 
around. Then with a shout of joy he stooped 
over and vigorously shook his sleeping companion. 

" Bob ! Oh, Bob ! " he exclaimed. " We 're safe, 
we 're safe ! " 

"Eh!" said Bob, quickly rising to his feet, 
"Safe — safe? Where — where are we ? How did 
we get here ? " 

"We're in San Miguel Bay," answered Joe; 
" for there 's the Santa Rosa," pointing to a high 
hill on a neighboring island, " and there are the 
Santa Inez mountains," pointing to the range back 
of Santa Barbara. "How we came here I don't 
know, unless we struck on that neck of land, and 
were washed over. It must have turned ebb soon 
after or we 'd be ashore, now." 

" What 's that noise ? " asked Bob. 

" That," said Joe, " is the welcome of the sea- 

" Sea-lions ! " repeated Bob, looking out on the 
ocean. " Where ? I can't see any." 

"Can't see any? Why, if you look toward 
shore you can't see anything else ! Don't you see 
those black things crawling about on the rocks all 
around the bay ? " 

Bob thought that he did. 

" We must get home as quick as we can," said 
Joe, after they had dropped anchor, bathed, and 
breakfasted, " for our folks will be dreadfully 
frightened. They '11 think we are drowned. But 
won't Captain Martin bless us when he sees his 
topsails made into shoe-strings," he added with a 
rueful glance upward. 

" How much would it cost to have new ones 
made ? " asked Bob. 

"Oh! I don't know. Fifty dollars maybe — 
twenty-five, anyhow ; and five dollars is the extent 
of my pile. Have you any money ? " 

" Dollar," replied Bob, dismally. " I wish we 'd 
taken the captain's advice instead of his schooner ! 
Father can't afford to pay for the sails, you know ; 
and your mother can't, of course. But we must 
do it somehow." 

" It 's all very well to say we must," said Joe ; 

" but how ? That 's the question. I 'd hate to go 

back without a word to the old man. He 's been 

very kind to me, Bob ; and I had no business to 





take the ' Emily ' when he forbade it. I only did 
it for fun. I 'm afraid, though, that mother is right, 
when she says somebody else generally has to pay 
for my fun ! What a noise those sea-lions do 
make — Oh, oh, an idea, Bob! An idea! — as 
sure as you live ! " 

" What is it? " asked Bob, eagerly. 

•' Let 's take a sea-lion home and exhibit him, 
and make some money that way. The people at 
the hotel would pay to see one ; and lots of the 
town-people have never seen a sea-lion, although 
the islands are full of them." 

" That's so," said Bob; "for I never saw any 
before. But how can we take one home? We'll 
have to catch him first." 

"Naturally!" said Joe; "but that's easy 
enough. I 've seen them caught lots of times. 
And once I saw two that were caught and taken 
alive to San Francisco ; so I know how to do it 
all. The trouble will be in making a cage." 

" A cage? " 

" Yes, you see we lasso him " 

" And there is Pedro Gonzales's lasso in the 
cabin ! " interrupted Bob. 

" So it is," said Joe. "Then I won't have to 
make one. After he is lassoed, we must put him 
in a big cage and tow him out to the schooner. I 
could make the cage, if only I had the wood. 
There are tools and nails enough on board." 

"Can't we find any wood on shore?" asked 

" I 'm afraid — Yes ! there 's an old tumble-down 
shanty that was used by some men who came here 
once for seal-oil. We '11 get the boards from that. 
Come on ! and we '11 lower the boat." 

Along the shore was a line of low rocks, with 
here and there a broad patch of sandy beach, or an 
occasional spur of rocks standing out like a senti- 
nel. But now neither rocks nor sand could any- 
where be seen, because of the hundreds and thou- 
sands of sea-lions playing and basking in the sun. 

Bob would have been content to watch their 
comical antics for the whole morning ; but Joe 
said they must hurry. So they rowed to a smooth 
piece of beach and pulled the boat up, much to the 
consternation of the assembly of sea-lions, which 
barked, flapped, rolled, and tumbled over one an- 
other in their haste to gain the water. 

Joe led the way to the ruined shanty, and at 
once began to split the boards into strips three 
inches wide. The finished cage was not remark- 
able for beauty ; but, as Joe said, it was strong 
and a sea-lion would not be critical about the ap- 
pearance of it. It was about seven feet long by 
three feet high and wide. 

The boys quietly rolled it to a spot as near as 
possible to the piece of beach where they had 

landed, and where the sea-lions were by this time 
again gathered. One side of the cage was left 
uncovered, but slats with nails driven in the right 
places stood ready for instant use. Joe had been 
careful to approach the timid creatures from 
the side away from the wind, and they had not 
taken alarm. 

Like many boys of Southern California, Joe and 
Bob were skillful in the use of the lasso ; but as 
Joe was more expert, Bob took only a rope with 
a noose on the end, to slip over the creature's tail, 
after Joe should have lassoed the head. 

With the noose in his right hand, and the coils 
of the lariat hanging on his left arm, Joe crouched 
behind a rock and peered about to select a good 

" There !" he said, after a short pause; "do 
you see that big fellow, sleeping away as if it were 
midnight and were never to be anything else ? 
Let 's catch him. Follow close, Bob, for I may 
need you to help hold him." 

Joe ran swiftly toward the selected lion, paying 
no attention to the others, which at once began a 
pell-mell rush for the water. The destined victim 
also did its best to flop away to safety as soon as it 
had waked up ; but Joe's noose was already cir- 
cling through the air, and the clumsy beast sud- 
denly found itself provided with a necktie fitting 
uncomfortably tight. 

The sudden jerk that Joe gave the lariat pulled 
the animal over on its side ; Joe laid back with all 
his might, and Bob was by his side in a moment. 
But the sea-lion, after its first astonishment, fell 
into a rage, and began a furious struggle, now 
to reach the water, and now to reach the boys, so 
that the would-be captors had quite as much as 
they could do, alternately to pull the animal from 
the water and to keep away from it themselves. 

The angry monster roared, snarled, and gnashed 
its long, sharp teeth in a style which emphatically 
discouraged any close intimacy at that moment ; 
and though it evidently had considerable trouble 
in breathing, it did not seem to be much worse off 
than the boys ; for their efforts made them pant 
quite as hard as did the captured lion. 

For some minutes it was " nip and tuck" ; and, 
as Joe said, it seemed for a while that " tuck was 
likely to have the best of it" ; but just as the boys 
were about to give up the fight the sea-lion sud- 
denly ceased to struggle. 

" Get your noose over its tail ! Quick, Bob," 
said Joe. 

Bob ran, and fortunately succeeded at the first 
attempt. The lion made one more effort to escape 
when it found its tail imprisoned, but it was evi- 
dently exhausted. The lion had been too fond of 
eating and sleeping, Joe said ; and he also declared 



'f'v 1 

.,y.i . ;: 
\ 111' , '.I i' / 

it moved back into the cage ; then, turning the cage 
over once more, with the open side up, the slats 
were quickly nailed on. The creature being safely 
caged at last, the boys rolled their captive down to 
the water and towed the cage out to the schooner. 

"Won't he drown if we keep him under water 
like this? " asked Bob as they moved slowly along, 
for their progress while towing the prize was by 
no means quick or easy. 

"Oh, no," answered Joe. "Sea-lions are like 

that if it had not been so 
fat and stupid they could 
never have held it. 

Bob now took the 
two ropes, while Joe as 
quickly as possible rolled 
the cage down to where 
thecaptivelay, and turned 
it over the sea-lion. 

Then, with some difficulty, the boys slipped the 
ropes under the edges of the cage and up through 
the top, and tied them firmly. Next they turned the 
cage over and poked at the sea-lion with sticks until 

whales and hippopotamuses ; they can stay under 
water a long time." 

When they reached the "Emily" they contrived, 
after some hard work, and by means of a clever 




arrangement of blocks and tackles, to get the 
cage with its snarling occupant on deck. A good 
wind was blowing in the right direction, so they 
hoisted sail at once, towing the boat behind them. 
They postponed dinner, although they were very 
hungry, until they were fairly under way. 

Notwithstanding the good breeze, the usually 
lively " Emily" seemed unaccountably slow. To 
be sure, they had no topsails ; but that deficiency 
was not enough to account for the lumbering way 
in which the schooner moved. The afternoon 
wore away and still the islands seemed hardly five 
miles distant, while the mainland looked as far off 
as ever. It began to appear as if the boys must 
spend another night on the schooner. 

"What's that?" exclaimed Bob suddenly, 
pointing northward. 

Joe shaded his eyes and looked. " That," said 
he, "is the San Francisco steamer on her down 
trip. Get the telescope out of the cabin. I '11 see 
if I can make out which one it is." 

Bob jumped down the hatchway, but imme- 
diately re-appeared with a frightened face, gasping: 

" Joe ! Oh, Joe ! the cabin 's full of water ! " 

Joe stared a moment, then cried, " Hold this 
wheel ! " and ran down the ladder. 

"She's sinking, Bob," he exclaimed the next 
moment, as with white face he re-appeared on deck. 
" We must get off as quick as we can." 

The small boat was drawn alongside and they 
clambered into it. The boys were hastily pushing 
off, when Joe remembered the sea-lion. 

"Bob," he exclaimed, "it's a shame to leave 
the poor lion to die. I 'm sure he can't live in 
that cage." 

" Will there be time to unloose him ? " 

"I think so," said Joe, pulling back to the 
schooner. " At any rate I '11 risk it." 

He climbed up on the schooner again, and sud- 
denly it occurred to him that it would do no harm 
to tow the animal after them. If they were picked 
up, they would be able to save it ; and if they were 
not, they might, at the worst, perhaps eat it. 

The boys were cooler now, and together they 
managed to get the cage overboard; and besides 
they put many small but valuable things from the 
cabin into the boat. Then they rowed away and 
tried to get as near the steamer's course as possible. 

"What do you suppose made the 'Emily' 
leak?" inquired Bob. 

"She must have knocked a hole in her when 
she went ashore last night," said Joe. " Perhaps 
it was a small hole and the water was a long time 
getting in. That 's why she sailed so slowly." 

Fortunately the officer on the deck of the steamer 
had already seen the sinking of the schooner ; then, 
sweeping the ocean with his glass, he saw the small 

boat with flags of distress waving vigorously ; for 
the boys, as the steamer came nearer, left the oars, 
shook their handkerchiefs and shouted. 

When the boys and their sea-lion — which they 
insisted upon keeping — were taken on board, they 
told their story. The gruff old sailor who com- 
manded the steamer read them a severe lecture, 
and told them that he did not stop at Santa Bar- 
bara on his down trip ; but that he would leave 
them at Santa Monica and take them up, three 
days later, on his return voyage. 

There was no help for it, so the boys made them- 
selves as comfortable as possible, and when they 
arrived in port, telegraphed to their parents. The 
hotel-keeper at Santa Monica consented to keep 
them until the return of the steamer. 

Of course the story was told in the local paper 
with all the details, not forgetting the sea-lion, 
which had been put ashore too. The result was 
that they had many visitors — so many that they 
were considering the propriety of charging an 
admittance fee to see not only the sea-lion, but 
themselves as well, so that they might collect some 
money for Captain Martin, whom they felt they 
had treated very badly. Indeed, they were even 
debating the price they should charge, when the 
hotel-keeper came up to them and whispered : 

" There 's a circus-man from Los Angeles look- 
ing at your sea-lion. Keep your eyes open, boys ! " 

The boys could not understand why a circus- 
man looking at their sea-lion should demand 
unusual vigilance on their part. 

" Mornin'," said a drawling voice behind them ; 
"you are the chaps who ran away with the 
schooner ? " 

" We did n't really run away w^ith her," said 
Bob independently. 

" Eg-zactly," said the stranger. " She run away 
with you, did n't she ? Eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! " 

The boys maintained a dignified silence. 

" I Ye just been a-lookin' at your sea-lion," said 
the man, taking a seat by Joe. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Joe. "You 're from the 
circus in Los Angeles." 

" just so ! " assented the man in surprise, think- 
ing the boys were very sharp. " So you know me, 
do you ? Well then, I suppose you know what 
I 'm after." 

" No," replied Joe, laughing at his own humor; 
" unless you want Bob and me for curiosities." 

" Pretty good, pretty good ! " ejaculated the cir- 
cus-man, approvingly. "But that is n't it. However, 
I 'd like to take that lion off your hands if you '11 
sell him reasonable." 

" Sell him ! " exclaimed the boys at once. 

" Yes, why not ? " answered the man. " What 
can you make out of him ? I '11 give you a 



fair price. Say, now, what will you take for 
him ? " 

Joe looked at Bob and Bob looked at Joe. 
Joe saw that he must be spokesman. " You 
know what he is worth," he said. "You set a 

" Set a price on your goods ! " exclaimed the 
man. " Not much. What '11 you take ? " 

" You offered to buy," said Joe. " You must 
make us an offer." 

" Pretty good ! pretty good ! " said the man, who 
seemed to admire anything shrewd, even if it was 
against him. "Well, then, what do you say to 
five hundred dollars ? " 

"Five hundred dollars!" ejaculated both boys 
in amazement at the sum which seemed to them 
enormous for the paltry sea-lion. 

But in truth, the sum was very much less than 
is usually paid, and, as the circus man knew this, 
he naturally supposed the boys were surprised at 
so low an offer, so he said : 

" Well, why don't you set a price, then? What 
do you say to a round thousand ? " 

It must be confessed that Joe thought he was 
dreaming ; but instinct, perhaps, or his natural 
sharpness, made him say : 

"Make it fifteen hundred, and you may have 
him. Eh, Bob?" 

" Certainly," gasped Bob. 

" The lion 's mine," said the man at once ; 
" providing he 's sound. Is he hurt in any way ? " 

" Not a bit," replied Joe, who was wishing he 
had asked more. ' ' When will you pay us ? " 

" I '11 go to Los Angeles and be back this after- 
noon with a draft," was the reply. 

The boys told the landlord of the sale, where- 
upon he bade them not to devote their time 
to rejoicing until they had the draft and knew 
it was good, too. So, in a state of mind made up 
of hope and fear and doubt, the two boys whiled 
away the day. But they need not have feared. 
The circus manager returned that afternoon with 
a certified check, which was declared good by the 
local bank. 

By the advice of the banker, they bought a 
draft on San Francisco, reserving enough in cash to 
pay for their board and for their passage. When 
all this was done and the two boys stood alone in 
their room, they first looked silently at each other 
and then began to turn somersaults and to per- 
form other strange antics. 

" Joe," said Bob at length, " how much was the 
' Emily ' worth ? " 

" I don't know," said Joe. " Not over a thou- 
sand dollars, though. Not so much." 

" Let's give Captain Martin a thousand dollars, 

" All right ! " 

The telegram had robbed them of the grand 
triumphal entry they had originally counted on 
making into their native port, but their families 
were glad to see them, and the boys agreed that it 
was good to be home. 

" And, now, Mother," said Joe, with his arm 
around her waist, "I know it was wrong of me, 
and I 'm sorry ; but you are glad of the two hun- 
dred dollars, are n't you ? You needed them, 
did n't you ? And you '11 forgive me the worry I 
caused you, won't you ? " 

And, mother-like, she did. 

By Tudor Jenks. 

deaf old sexton from his sleep is wakened by a yell 
! Fire ! — Hurry ! — Get up and toll the bell ! " 
rowsily he gropes his way into the dark old steeple ; 
bell clangs an alarm, and soon the village people 
In panic, but half clad, toil through the clogging snow 
To gather where the flames send out their ruddy glow. 
An aimless, frightened flock, not knowing what to do, 
They wring their helpless hands, until a wiser few 
Have formed a double line, with pails and dippers old. 
Then to the blazing roof quick climbs a hero bold ! 
The surly flames in scorn hiss at his puny toil, 
Though sturdily he strives to drive them from their spoil. 
From door or open window, the frenzied housewives throw 
Great mattresses, and mirrors upon the crowd below. 
Alas! — the well is emptied ! — the brave can do no more ! 
The crackling roof falls in ; the flames exulting roar. 
The morning light discloses only the smoking ground 
Strewn thick with household treasures in ruin all around. 
A home has ceased to be. The blackened ruins bare, 
In mockery of grief, seem mourning 
weeds to wear. 

2 7 8 


TING, ting ! " rings out a little bell. The horses, trained to their duty well 
Into harness go with a bound; men seem springing from the ground ! 

The fire under the boiler roars ; 

Backward rush the heavy doors. 

Into the street with a cautious glide, 

Then they gallop ! How they ride ! 

Steadily peals the warning gong, 

Cleaving through the bustling throng, 

With clatter — sparks — arumblingsound. 

A sudden stop, — the fire 's found ; 

The hose unwinds, all ready to play, 

The trembling engine throbs away, 

The water falls in a curving beam, 

The fire dies in a whiff of steam ! 

All is over, home they go ; 

Dignified horses, pacing slow, 

Seeming to say, " The fire is out ! 

What is all the noise about ? " 

ft! 6 





i v/ijh ytfcL r«r\v 

pSWll •ViNd. tW i°°r 

-ver-y £8>ny| '! 
Th c 1 1 u i ^ p\£\ &t\( 5&v<ii , 

'' fit- ^k-gN tW OfcHitfrt 

'"Jt taegutf a 

mty A'v^-Kc AlCj" b".ije<t. 


By Eudora S. Bumstead. 

If three little houses stood in a row, 

With never a fence to divide, 
And if each little house had three little maids 

At play in the garden wide, 
And if each little maid had three little cats 

(Three times three times three), 
And if each little cat had three little kits, 

How many kits would there be ? 

And if each little maid had three little friends 

With whom she loved to play. 
And if each little friend had three little dolls 

In dresses and ribbons gay, 
And if friends and dolls and cats and kits 

Were all invited to tea, 
And if none of them all should send regrets, 

How many guests would there be? 


By Edmund Alton. 

Chapter IV. 


The City of Washington is the seat of the Fed- 
eral Government and, as such, the center of ad- 
ministration. There the President has his head- 
quarters, surrounded by Congress, by the Supreme 
Court, by the Executive Departments, and by 
many of the inferior offices and tribunals estab- 
lished by Congressional enactment. The office 
of President is of Constitutional creation, and the 
exercise of his Constitutional functions is not 
restrained to any particular place. It is different 
with the administrative offices created by statute 
and attached to the scat of Government ; by legis- 
lative command they must be exercised in the 
District of Columbia and not elsewhere, except as 
otherwise expressly provided by law. During the 
sessions of Congress the President is practically 
held prisoner at the Capital by the exactions of 
legislative business, and rarely absents himself 
longer than a few days at a time ; the adjourn- 
ment of Congress releases him from his heavy and 
constant labors in connection with the making of 
laws, and charged then only with the performance 
of his purely executive duties, he may shift his 
location as his personal convenience may prompt, 
and issue his orders from any section of the country 
to which he may go. Such has been the practice, 
and such, in the light of custom, is his Constitu- 
tional privilege. These absences have been in- 
dulged in by every President except one (and 
he, the grandfather of our next Executive, died 
shortly after inauguration), and Presidential acts 
of greater or less importance have thus occasion- 
ally been performed away from Washington. 
But such absences being in the nature of holiday 
vacations, and the business so transacted by the 
President being comparatively slight and of no 
special significance, we need not pursue his move- 

* Whether the President could go outside the United States and 
issue orders from abroad is a question that no President has given 
us occasion to debate. Should circumstances call him abroad, it 
is to be assumed that his absence would be treated as an " inability," 
within the meaning of the Constitution, and that his duties would 
temporarily devolve upon the Vice-President. 

tA suggestion that has found some favor in Congress is to con- 
struct a new building in the rear of the present mansion, of similar 

ments and work beyond his ordinary official 

This official residence, designated by law as 
"The President's House," is familiarly known 
as the Executive Mansion or White House. Its 
foundations were laid during the administration 
of President Washington ; its first occupant was 
John Adams, who took possession in the fall of 
1800, when the Government formally removed to 
the District of Columbia as its permanent seat. 
The White House is a public edifice, in the sense 
that it was built and is owned by the Government, 
the free use of the building and its furniture being 
assigned to the President, during his term of office. 
It was designed, however, as its name, " The Presi- 
dent's House," implies, as the private habitation 
of the President, and not as an office for the trans- 
action of his public duties. But the original inten- 
tion has not been carried out, and his private 
abode (by the failure of Congress to make other 
arrangements) is separated from his official quar- 
ters only by a door.f And it would seem that 
American tourists have never been able to distin- 
guish the line between his public and his domestic 
relations. In the time of Washington, the people 
trooped through every part of his residence at all 
hours of the day and night, and this annoyance, 
of which he secretly complained, has been meekly 
borne by many of his successors down to the advent 
of President Cleveland. The private apartments 
of the President are now closed against sightseers, 
much to the vexation of a class who foolishly con- 
tend that, as public property, the entire household 
should be thrown open to general inspection. 

It was high time that the President should take 
this stand ; and by words of sharp rebuke he has 
attempted to teach some people a further lesson in 
propriety. As an officer of the Government, the 
official conduct of the President is a matter for 
public view and criticism ; as a private citizen, his 
domestic affairs are his own, sacred from popular 

size and connected with it by a corridor; the new wing to be used 
exclusively as a private residence, and the old wing as an office for 
the President and his official household. In the summer months, our 
later Presidents have sought rest and privacy in a cottage at the 
Soldiers' Home, in the outskirts of the city, using the White House 
as a business office during the day. President Cleveland has secured 
seclusion and quiet by building a suburban residence at his own 




comment or intrusion. This ideal barrier, re- 
spected by all honest and thoughtful persons, 
seems invisible to partisan rancor and to a sensa- 
tional society and press. 

But neither the Constitution nor the laws recog- 
nize any distinction between the person of the 
President and the person of the humblest citizen. 
They are both equal, so far as any assaults upon 
their lives or reputations may call for legal redress ; 
and both alike are liable to punishment for of- 
fenses against the law. During the Presidency of 
John Adams the vituperation heaped upon the 
Chief Magistrate and upon others in authority was 
so virulent and despicable and so hostile to the 
dignity of the Government as to evoke from Con- 
gress a severe law for its repression. This law, 
however, at once became odious to the people, 
jealous of the Constitutional right of freedom of 
speech, and was speedily repealed. Two Presi- 
dents have been struck down by the hands of as- 
sassins, and with their fall the nation trembled. 
National horror incited national apprehensions. 
It was suggested that a mere attempt against the 
life of a President should be deemed an offense 
against the stability of the Government, and be 
made punishable, as in other countries, by death. 
But though the nation shook, the Republic re- 
mained firm. The Vice-President instantly grasped 
the reins of power, and the Government went 
safely on. Popular excitement died out, and pop- 
ular traditions revived. The American people 
have declined to admit that the safety of republi- 
can institutions depends upon the existence of any 
one public man or any number of public men, 
however high their stations of authority. The 
killing of a President is ordinary murder; an un- 
successful attempt upon his life is merely an assault 
with intent to kill; defamation of his character is 
simply libel or slander, and the gravity of each 
offense, in the eye of the law, is neither more nor 
less in the case of a President than where the vic- 
tim or intended victim is a citizen in private life.* 
If aggrieved by personal aspersions, the President 
may appeal to the criminal or civil remedy open 
through the courts of law to all citizens ; or he 
may seek refuge in the quiet philosophy that treats 
such assaults as unworthy of notice and relies on 
honorable society and journalism to ignore or re- 
sent malicious and unjust abuse. As to the safety 
of his person, his main reliance is upon the law- 
abiding instincts and patriotism of the great mass 

* The only practical suggestion inspired by the last assassination 
of a President, and actually adopted, was the extension of the line 
of Presidential succession. Prior to 18S6, this line consisted of the 
Vice-President (who, by the terms of the Constitution, succeeds to 
the office upon a vacancy arising through removal, death, resigna- 
tion, or inability), the President pro tempore of the Senate, and 
the Speaker of the House of Representatives. In 1886, Congress 

of the people. In the dark days of the war, Lin- 
coln (yielding rather to the entreaties of friends 
than to his own inclination) was accompanied in 
some of his rides about the Capital by armed horse- 
men, or shadowed in his walks by officers on foot ; 
but in ordinary times of peace our Presidents have 
scorned the possibility of dangers from which mon- 
aichs and other rulers are supposed to shrink even 
in their sleep. Franklin Pierce, we are told, " used 
to gallop about Washington at midnight on a 
spirited steed which was totally blind " ; Buchanan 
strolled through the streets and markets of the 
city, affably chatting with the passers-by and min- 
gling with the crowd; Grant walked or rode with 
free and fearless nonchalance, and once, when he 
increased the pace of his horses beyond the speed 
allowed by law, was promptly arrested for fast driv- 
ing : The grounds of the Executive Mansion are 
fenced with iron ; a few watchmen guard the build- 
ing and the park at night. That is the extent of 
vigilance and force — a bare show of prudence and 
protection. In the daytime the grounds and house 
are a public thoroughfare; the gates are seldom 
closed ; and expulsions from the place, occasion- 
ally made by the attendants, are confined to that 
peculiar class of visitors, more whimsical than 
harmful, popularly described as "cranks." 

As the law surrounds the President with no royal 
provisions for personal protection, and with no royal 
privileges of personal immunity, so there is an utter 
absence of royal splendor or display in his official 
household and surroundings. The appropriations 
made by Congress afford no encouragement in this 
respect. A private secretary, an assistant secretary, 
three executive clerks, four assistant clerks, a stew- 
ard (who, under the direction of the President, has 
charge and custody of, and is responsible for, the 
plate, furniture, and other public property in the 
Executive Mansion), an usher, four messengers, 
five doorkeepers, one watchman, and one fireman 
constitute the entire office and household retinue 
provided for by the present law. The contingent 
expenses of the establishment — such as stationery, 
telegrams, fuel, gas, furniture and carpets, books 
for the library, care of grounds, and the like — are 
borne by the Government. For food and kindred 
items, whether purchased for his personal use or for 
the state entertainments annually expected of him 
as the head of official society, and for cooks, coach- 
man, and other domestic attendants, he must pay 
out of his personal funds ; and with a salary of 

changed this line by cutting off the President pro tempore of the 
Senate and the Speaker of the House, adding, in their stead, 
the heads of Executive Departments, in the order in which those 
heads were named in Chapter II. of this series (beginning with 
the Secretary of State and ending with the Secretary of the Inte- 
rior), but subject to certain qualifications and conditions stated in 
the law. 


:8 3 

only fifty thousand dollars a year, a President must 
practice economy if he would keep his expenses 
within the limits of his purse. An attempt to dis- 
charge his social obligations with a princely hand 
would quickly bring him to the brink of bank- 
ruptcy. Washington, possessed as he was of an 
independent fortune on which he could draw for 
special luxuries, or to meet the demands of official 
hospitality, requested Congress to regard only 
"such actual expenditures as the public good 
may be thought to require " in fixing the Presi- 
dential compensation. The salary was accordingly- 
placed at twenty-five thousand dollars a year, and 
so remained until 1S73, when it was doubled in 
amount. But twenty-five thousand dollars a cen- 
tury ago "went further," as the saying is, than 
fifty thousand dollars will reach to-day. The gilded 
equipage of Washington, " with its coachmen and 
footmen in powdered wigs, and its white horses 
with blackened hoofs," regal compared to the 
private Presidential carriage of 1889, was only in 
harmony with the brilliant style in which he 
maintained the dignity of the "American Court." 
In the stable of John Adams, stocked and sus- 
tained at public cost, we find numerous horses, 
plated harness, an "elegant chariot," and other 
vehicles and traveling paraphernalia. Jefferson 
and Madison had horses of their own, but they 
did not scruple to let the Government pay for the 
expense of stabling. The "office carriage " and 
horses now provided for White House convenience, 
and used mainly by the assistant secretary in carry- 
ing Presidential messages to the Capitol, are decid- 
edly ordinary in value and appearance — as are the 
private vehicles and horses bought by the Presi- 
dent for the personal use of himself and family. 
It is well enough to believe in the sterling patriot- 
ism of our forefathers, but it is idle to hold up the 
administrations of bygone years as patterns of social 
simplicity for the present generation of officials to 
copy. The solid silver plate, forming part of the 
public property in the White House, is no glaring 
evidence of modern prodigality, and the President 
need not abandon it for pewter simply to avoid un- 
favorable comparison. There was certainly nothing 
very wicked in the use by Van Buren of gold spoons ; 
but if there is a single feature of old-time extrav- 
agance or pomp surviving to-day, a trip through 
the Presidential offices, kitchen, and stable fails to 
bring it to view. The social and ceremonial phase 
of life at the White House will be taken up, how- 

* We have omitted all reference to the necessary qualifications 
of the President and the manner of his election. These matters were 
described in a previous series, published in St. Nicholas; for an 
explanation of that subject, and particularly of the Congressional work 
of counting the electoral votes (a ceremony just now of special inter- 
est), the reader is referred to the number for February, 1885. 

t This tedious and automatic hand-shaking (which, for conven- 

ever, in another chapter ; we may first observe 
the details of the President's office work.* 

The business apartments, few in number, are 
situated on the second (or top) floor of the build- 
ing. That occupied by the President (used by 
him as office, private audience-room, and Cabinet 
chamber) is guarded by a door-keeper, and admis- 
sion is regulated by card, except in the case of 
Members of Congress and prominent officials, who 
are privileged to pass freely in and out during cer- 
tain hours. The adjoining room is occupied by 
the private secretary, the one beyond by the as- 
sistant secretary, and an opposite room by clerks. 

Much of the work daily performed in the Execu- 
tive Mansion constitutes no part of the necessary 
duties of the President, and is imposed by popular 
ignorance and presumption. The desire of Ameri- 
cans to take a look at their Chief Magistrate is 
natural and proper enough in its way ; but when 
this curiosity insists upon wringing his hand by 
wholesale and chattering compliments into his ear, 
it becomes, to say the least, unreasonable. Still, 
this is one of the ordeals to which he submits, with 
more or less grace, out of deference to the public ; 
and hundreds of tourists file before him each week, 
grasp his hand, murmur their trifles, and go away 
with sensations of patriotic delight. f But his time 
and patience are taxed not only by visiting tourists 
and delegations calling merely to pay their respects. 
He is besieged by persons of every description, 
and by all sorts of petitions and complaints. 

The most formidable and least welcome class of 
callers is the army of chronic office-seekers. At 
the beginning of a new Administration these ap- 
plicants for "spoils" literally swarm about the 
place. They adopt various methods to gain au- 
dience with the appointing power, and, failing to 
secure an interview, have recourse to correspond- 
ence to advance their claims. Add to these indi- 
viduals the personal intercessions of Congressmen 
and others, and the thousands of written testi- 
monials and recommendations in behalf of appli- 
cants, and we may infer something as to the ex- 
tent of this dreadful persecution. It is related that 
Lincoln, in his perplexity as to the merits of two 
rival candidates for office, grimly placed in a scale 
the recommendations submitted by each, and set- 
tled the matter by the actual weight of the papers. 
Nor was he the only President harassed by such 
contentions. The rush for place has driven some 
minds to the verge of distraction ; it is directly 

ience in disposing of crowds, takes place in the large reception par- 
lor, or East Room, on the entrance floor, instead of in the small 
audience room above) has been styled the " Presidential pump- 
handle performance. " At one of these receptions, not long ago, more 
than a thousand visitors, by actual count, shook the President's 
hand within half an hour, being at the rate of forty " shakes " to a 




responsible for the fatal illness of one President, 
and indirectly responsible for the death of another. 

Against the importunities of this class and of 
other thoughtless and aggressive petitioners, the 
private secretary acts as a defense. The office of 
President of the United States was not designed as 
a national intelligence and employment bureau. 
He has duties of far more consequence than the 
distribution of Federal patronage and the answer- 
ing of private conundrums ; and, even were he so 
disposed, he could not attempt, by reason of the 
limits upon his time and physical endurance, to 
hear every person wishing an interview, or person- 
ally to attend to all inquiries sent him by mail. 

Only a small proportion of the letters received, 
or of the people who call upon private business 
ever reach the eye of the President. The crowd 
of callers, and the mass of correspondence that 
daily deluge the White House, must first run the 
gauntlet of the private secretary and subordinate 
clerks in attendance. The experienced door-keeper 
at the head of the stairway is a good judge of 
faces ; and if he has any misgiving about the par- 
ticular mission of a caller, the caller is apt to be 
invited politely to see the private secretary and 
state the object of his visit. This official readily 
disposes of trivial questions and business, and in 
many cases the visitors go away better satisfied 
with the advice or information so obtained than if 
they had seen the President himself. The same 
"sifting" process is practiced in regard to the mail. 
The letters are opened by the clerks, who select 
for submission to the President only such as they 
consider important or necessary for him to see, and 
this selected batch is further reduced in size by the 
final judgment of the private secretary. Every 
letter, however, whether actually read by the Pres- 
ident or not, receives attention. The numerous 
communications addressed to him, as head of the 
Republic, are restricted to no particular variety or 
subject. Applications for pensions or for patents 
put in freauent appearance, along with begging 
appeals for money, quaint political comment or 
advice, and notes expressing every shade of 
popular eccentricity, desire, or fancy. While the 
President is not the proper official to address for 
information as to department or bureau doings, or 
on like topics, yet such letters are not allowed to 
go astray. If an application for a pension is re- 
ceived, the private secretary promptly forwards it 
to the Commissioner of Pensions, and courteously 
informs the applicant of its receipt, and of the 
disposition made of it. The same course is pur- 
sued with other inquiries or requests, improperly 
sent to the White House instead of to department 
or bureau heads. All are duly acknowledged and 
the correspondents steered into the proper chan- 

nels. The private secretary, it should be stated, is 
the organ of communication between the President 
and the people. He has general direction of all 
the office-work, and signs his name to office cor- 
respondence as the President's representative. Pos- 
sessing necessarily the absolute confidence of his 
chief, the influence he wields in public affairs marks 
him as a conspicuous figure in Administration 

The business relations between the President and 
Congress, so far as they are evidenced by work at 
the Executive Mansion, consist in the making out 
of nominations, forwarding of treaties, approval or 
disapproval of bills, and the transmission of informa- 
tion on general or special subjects. Bills and other 
measures passed by Congress and forwarded to him 
for signature, are presented to him in person by 
some member of the Congressional Committee on 
Enrolled Bills. As the President visits the Legis- 
lative department only on rare occasions of cere- 
mony, his communications arc committed to paper, 
signed by him, and delivered by the private secre- 
tary or one of the office assistants in person. As a 
matter of official courtesy, these communications 
are closely guarded until actually delivered to the 
House of Representatives or Senate. In the case 
of treaties transmitted to the Senate, the secrecy 
continues until removed by that body. The An- 
nual Message (transmitted at the opening of Con- 
gress), nominations to office, notifications of ap- 
proval or disapproval of bills, and messages of 
general or special information, are given publicity 
through printed or manifold copies prepared for 
the convenience of the press and furnished to the 
correspondents the moment the originals reach 
their legislative destination at the Capitol. 

Upon the ratification of a treaty by the Senate, 
it is promulgated by a Proclamation, signed by the 
President and attested by the Secretary of State. 
The designations of "Thanksgiving Day," and 
other Executive notifications intended for popular 
guidance or warning, also take the form of Procla- 

In matters of administration, the commands of 
the President are communicated to the various 
departments as "Executive orders." The heads 
of department, popularly styled the " President's 
Cabinet," meet him at the White House every Tues- 
day and Thursday morning for general conference. 
In addition to these regular Cabinet meetings, spe- 
cial consultations are sometimes called. In the 
latter case, the private secretary may go through 
the formality of summoning the officers by written 
requests for their attendance, or adopt the speedier 
and more business-like method of " ringing them 
up " by telephone. In the absence from the city 
of a head of department, his duties devolve upon an 



assistant secretary or other officer designated by 
law, or by simple order, and this acting-head repre- 
sents the department at the Presidential councils. 
Each officer, on Cabinet days, goes to the White 
House carrying under his arm a large leather port- 
folio containing official papers that he may wish to 
submit to the President; and the phrase, "a 
Cabinet portfolio," has come into vogue as synony- 
mous with a Secretaryship. 

The President presides, seated at the head of 
the long table, facing north ; on his right are 
seated the Secretary of State, the Secretary of 
War, and Postmaster-General ; on his left are the 
Secretary of the Treasury, the Secretary of the 
Navy, and the Attorney-General ; and opposite to 
him, at the foot of the table, is the chair of the 
Secretary of the Interior. The private secretary 
occupies a seat at a small desk facing the southern 
window and near the President. This arrange- 
ment is not in accordance with the order of prece- 
dence observed by Congress in establishing the 
Presidential succession. If the Attorney-General 
and Secretary of the Navy should change seats, 
bringing the former fourth and the latter sixth, — 
the rank alternating across the table, — the order 
would be strictly correct. 

The sessions of the Cabinet are informal affairs. 
No persons except those named are permitted to 
enter the room during the councils, and no official 
record of the proceedings is kept. The business 
done or discussed covers all leading subjects be- 
longing to the various branches of administration 
on which the President may desire information or 
advice, — department reports concerning special 
matters of importance, appointments to office, and 
questions of general administrative policy. The 
conference is perfectly free and easy, officers of 
different departments expressing opinions on affairs 

The Cabinet, as a body, is unknown to the Con- 
stitution and the laws. It is the growth of custom. 
There is no obligation on the part of the President 
to hold these councils, nor is he bound to pay the 
slightest attention to any advice offered by his con- 
fidential advisers ; * and Presidents, with wills of 
their own, have occasionally acted in direct oppo- 
sition to Cabinet advice. 

A striking illustration of this fact is afforded by 
the case of the Emancipation Proclamation — the 
great historic war-measure before referred to, and 
the most important proclamation that ever came 
from the hand of a President. Various versions 
have been given of what occurred in the cabinet- 
room, and of the scene at the final signing of the 
paper. In a recent debate in the House of Repre- 
sentatives, it was intimated that at the last moment 
Lincoln's courage almost failed, and a large paint- 
ing hanging in the Capitol, representing the scene 
and showing the President with arrested pen about 
to attach his name, was referred to as evidence of 
a wavering mind. 

An excellent authority gives a different account. 
The advisability of issuing the Proclamation was 
fully discussed at various meetings of the Cabinet ; 
and leading advisers of the President, with grave 
arguments and warnings, urged him against the 
act. Lincoln patiently heard them to the end — 
and the subject was put aside. He gave no hint 
as to what course he would pursue. One day, 
months afterward, the members of the Cabinet 
were summoned to the White House. When all 
had arrived the President addressed them. He 
pointed to a paper — a draft of the Proclamation, 
prepared by him. He told them that he had re- 
solved to issue it ; that he did not wish and would 
not permit debate; that his mind could not be 
altered; his only purpose in calling them together 

not directly relating to their own; and in discuss- being to submit the paper to their inspection for 

ing some doubtful step it may happen that the 
matter in doubt will be influenced and settled by 
the views of some officer whose department is least 
interested in the question at stake — as if a ques- 
tion of foreign policy, broached by the Secretary 
of State, should be determined by the arguments 
of the Secretary of the Interior. It is a delicate 
matter for the head of one department to criticise 
the ordinary affairs of another; and his advice 
would scarcely be tendered unless directly invited 
by the President. There have been jealousies and 
rivalries around the Cabinet table as well as outside 
the White House ; and matters of etiquette as well 
as matters of State have provoked official fallings- 
out. The secrecy of the proceedings has shielded 
many wrangles from the public. 

any suggestions they might have to offer in the 
way of mere verbal changes or " matters of form." 
With these brief, impressive words, the document 
was laid before his ministers of state, and then 
boldly spread before the world ! 

When pressed by imperative duties, such as the 
preparation of his Annual Message (upon which 
he usually begins about the middle of Novem- 
ber), it sometimes becomes necessary for the Presi- 
dent to shut himself away from the crowd and 
refuse to be disturbed even by officials, except 
those reporting on urgent department affairs. But, 
generally speaking, his day is given up to hearing 
what others have to say. Hand-shaking tourists, 
autograph-hunting boys, office-seekers, politi- 
cians, Congressmen with personal and partisan 

* President Jackson is said to have been cuided more by the advice of a few personal friends than by the opinions of his official 
Cabinet; the term " Kitchen Cabinet," bestowed upon that circle of Presidential favorites, has been similarly used in connec- 
tion with other Administrations. 



advice or requests, and public officials, — these 
and other people keep him busy, and scarcely 
allow him a moment for reflection during ordi- 
nary business hours. 

Some Presidents have not allowed affairs of 
State to worry them to any burdensome extent 
or to interfere with their recreations or repose ; 
others have deliberately assumed vexatious details 
that might as well be left to subordinate officers 
and clerks. They all have been accustomed to 
yield more or less time to the different classes of 
callers whom it has not been deemed courtesy or 

policy to avoid; but after all these people have 
come and gone, and after many of them have 
retired to rest, a painstaking and hard-working 
President begins the serious labors of the day. 
For, after the evening has well advanced, he 
retires to his library, and there, alone, with appli- 
cations and requests, with legislative measures 
and department reports, submitted to him for 
action, he examines the merits of each question, 
writing his messages to Congress and his executive 
orders, or studying and shaping administrative 
policy, far into the night.* 

* The daily method ordinarily observed by President Cleveland is other day receives visiting tourists in the East Room. After lunch- 
as follows: He goes to his office at 9 o'clock, and looks over his eon, he attends to matters brought to his attention during the fore- 
mail (as reduced through the sifting process of the private secretary) noon, and works until 5, when he goes out for a drive; he dines 
until 9 : 30: receives Cabinet officers until 10, members of Congress at 7 (the " established hour" for Presidential family dinners), and 
until 12, other callers from 12 to 1 : 30, and for a few minutes every afterward goes to his study and works until midnight. 



By John H. Gibbons, U. S. N. 

At the breakfast table one morning, Colonel 
Brown, while reading his newspaper, came upon 
an item which caused him to turn to his young son 
and exclaim: "Halloa, Marryat, what do you 
think of this ? " 

Marryat Farragut, the heir-apparent of the 
Brown family, thus questioned, could only ask : 
" Think of what, father? " 

Colonel Brown adjusted his glasses and read the 
following paragraph : 

" The Hon. Sylvanus Coddle, member of Congress from this 
district, announces that the cadetship at the United States Naval 
Academy, for which the Secretary of the Navy has asked him to 
name a candidate, will be filled by a competitive examination. All 
boys, between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, who are residents 
of the district, and can furnish certificates of good character, are 
eligible. The examination will be conducted in the Circuit Court 
room, by the following committee : Judge Oyer, Dr. Scalpel, and 
Professor Parallelogram. Candidates will report at 10 A. M., 
Tuesday, the 15th inst." 

"Well, would you like to try?" inquired the 
colonel, as he laid aside the paper and looked at 
his son, who had become much interested during 
the reading. "You have always talked about 
going to sea." 

"Of course I would," replied Marryat, casting 
an eager side-glance at his mother, who looked 
uneasy at the mere suggestion. 

If Colonel Brown had a weakness, it was enthu- 
siasm for " the military," — by which he meant the 
army and navy. A distant relative of the Brown 
family served under Perry in the battle on Lake 
Erie. The colonel himself was a veteran of the 
Civil War. He named his only son after the cele- 
brated writer of naval romances, and added the 
"Farragut" in deference to his hobby and patri- 
otic feeling. Evidently the boy's destiny was now 
to be fulfilled. After a family consultation, in 
which the colonel gently overruled all his wife's 
objections, Marryat received the parental permis- 
sion to enter the contest. Dr. Scalpel, after an 
examination, pronounced eight of the boys phys- 
ically sound; Judge Oyer dozed over the creden- 
tials of the eight applicants, and looked very 
wise, while young Professor Parallelogram, the 
principal of the High School, plied them with 
questions in Arithmetic, Algebra, Geography, 
Grammar, and the history of the United States. 
The result was not long in doubt. Marryat came 




out an easy victor. He was one of those quick, 
active, intelligent boys who impress their elders fa- 
vorably. Next day Marryat was announced as the 
successful candidate, and received the congratula- 
tions of his many friends, including the Hon. Syl- 
vanus Coddle. Ten days later, the Brown house- 



hold was thrown into a state of great excitement 
by the arrival of a large envelope, postmarked 
" Washington," and stamped "Navy Department, 
Official Business." It contained a letter authoriz- 
ing Marryat to present himself to the Superin- 
tendent of the United States Naval Academy, on 
the first of September, at the examination for 

" You will have to leave here the day after to- 
morrow," said the colonel, unable to hide his 
disappointment. " The time is so short that I 
can't arrange my business affairs so as to permit 
me to accompany you to Annapolis. But you can 
look out for yourself, my son." 

After hurried preparations and leave-takings 
Marryat started on his journey alone. It proved 
uneventful. The hopeful candidate arrived at his 
destination without having missed his trains, and 
without having lost his pocket-book — accidents 
not uncommon to inexperienced travelers. 

Annapolis, once the capital of the United 
States, is content with that historical distinction. 
The town is sleepy, slow, and old-fashioned, living 
only in the memories of its eventful past. Nar- 

row streets ; brick walks that have been worn into 
hollows; low, rambling, weather-beaten houses 
with musty green blinds that seem to be always 
closed ; rickety wharves where vessels no longer 
moor — these are the heirlooms of the old Colonial 
days. The bustle and confusion of a thriving 
town are entirely wanting ; but everywhere one 
finds relics of real historic interest. The old 
State House, built of bricks brought from Eng- 
land, raises its dingy wooden dome above the 
surrounding house-tops, with only the tall spire of 
St. Ann's to keep it company. The Continental 
Congress met in this same State House, and the 
room in which George Washington resigned his 
office as commander-in-chief of the army is still 
shown to visitors. There is also an old hotel which 
received the father of his country as an occasional 
guest. What need of modern improvements when 
a town possesses such landmarks! 

But when the small army of candidates for the 
Naval Academy makes its annual invasion, the 
town takes a new lease of life. Marryat was so 
busy making acquaintances among the new arriv- 
als, who swarmed in the hotels and boarding- 
houses, that he thought little of the decayed grand- 
eur of Annapolis. A fellow-feeling exists among 
the boys who thus come together from every 
State in the Union. The small office of the hotel 
became a general assembly room, where the boys, 
their parents, and their friends met together and 
discussed the situation. A tall, awkward farmer- 
boy from the West talked loudly with Marryat 
about their prospects, while a dark-eyed, reserved 
Southerner now and then put in a quiet word. A 
shy, rosy-cheeked New England boy, who wore 
knickerbockers and never left his father's side, 
listened attentively, but, when spoken to, blushed 
deeply and answered in monosyllables. Candi- 
dates from the same State became friends at once. 
"What State are you from?" was a question 
which Marryat was repeatedly called upon to 

On the night of his arrival, Marryat was sub- 
jected to his first "running." Hazing is now 
almost unknown at Annapolis, Congress having 
made it a court-martial offense, punishable by 
dismissal. Hazing " plebes " has given place to a 
mild form of annoyance known as " running," by 
which the candidates are made to feel their great 
social and mental inferiority, as judged from the 
cadets' standpoint. Here is a synopsis of a little 
farce in which Marryat took a principal part : 

Scene — A room in the hotel. Half a dozen candi- 
dates discovered, busy over their books. A leud 
knock on the door is heard. Enter two very small 
cadets, in blue uniforms bright with brass buttons. 
Candidates all rise and anxiously await develop- 



ments. One of the cadets says, loftily, "Good 
afternoon, young gentlemen." 

Candidates reply in chorus, "Good afternoon." 
Small cadet (sternly to Marryat). "What 's your 
name ? " 

Marryat (nervously). "Brown." 
Small Cadet (severely). " Brown what?" 
Marryat (at a guess). " Marryat Brown." 
Small Cadet (scowling). " Marryat Brown 
what ? " 

One of the candidates has evidently been a party 
to some previous interview, for he whispers some- 
thing to Marryat, who replies with more confidence, 
" Brown, sir." 

Small Cadet. "Ah! — that 's much better. 
And how do you spell it, Mr. Brown ? " 
Marryat. " B-r-o-w-n, sir. " 
Small Cadet. "Try it again, Mr. Brown." 
Marryat (after a second prompting by the know- 

translated, means that Marryat is sure to fail at 
the examination and be rejected.) 

Thus the nonsense goes on. Other candidates are 
called in and made to cut droll capers. Reciting 
children's rhymes, singing songs, playing circus, 
imitating animals, and a hundred other absurdi- 
ties are gone through with. The cadets never 
smile. They move among the others like superior 
beings, demanding homage which is freely given. 
The admiring candidates, abashed at finding them- 
selves so green, long for the time when they too 
can swagger and exact the deferential "sir," and 
fill their conversation with nautical phrases. But 
even "running" is now considered as another 
form of hazing, and is fast taking its place among 
the lost arts. 

The new-comers found a notice posted in the 
hotel office, informing candidates that the exami- 
nation would be held on the following day. In 


sir; r, sir; o, sir; w, sir; n, 

ing candidate). " B, 

sir ; Brown, sir." 

Small Cadet. "You spell well. Ever bone 

any math ? " (In English : " Have you ever 

studied mathematics ? ") 

Marryat (hesitating). " Ye-ye-yes, sir." 
Small Cadet (with lightning-like rapidity). " If 

a herring and a half cost a cent and a half, what '11 

half a herring cost ? Quick!" (Marryat ponders. ) 

" Oh, you '11 bilge !" (Which latter remark, being 

Vol. XVI.— 19. 

the meantime Marryat, accompanied by some of 
his new acquaintances, set out to explore the 
unknown lands that lay beyond the walls. 

The Naval Academy grounds extend along the 
banks of the Severn river, where it flows into the 
Chesapeake Bay. The Severn forms the northern 
boundary, Annapolis harbor the eastern, while on 
the land side two high brick walls, running at 
right angles to each other, separate the fifty acres 
of government land from the town of Annapolis. 




As they passed the sentries at the gate, Marryat 
looked in wonder and delight at the garden spot 
in which he suddenly found himself. The change 
from the musty town was refreshing. The grand 
natural beauties of West Point were wanting (Mar- 
ryat had seen West Point), but everything that 
man's hand could do had been done to make the 
park-like inclosure pleasing to the eye. Green 



lawns, shady avenues, grassy terraces, winding 
walks and drives, groves of gnarled oaks and rows 
of shapely maples — these met the view on every 
side. Besides, everything showed the presence 
of a thriving colony. 

Along the outer wall for nearly its whole length 
were rows of substantial-looking brick houses, the 
quarters for the officers and their families. On the 
left of the main avenue they saw the cadets' quarters, 
an immense building with gray facade and brown- 
stone cappings, girdled with a wide veranda and 
surmounted by a clock tower. They visited the 
armory, the hospital, the laundry, the bakery, the 
natatorium, and the physical and chemical labora- 
tories. Along the Severn side, and separated from 
it by terraces and lawns, were many places of 
interest ; the observatory, the steam-engineering 
building with its foundry and machine-shops, a 
photographer's gallery, the seamanship hall filled 
with hundreds of models, the ordnance building 

whose ceiling and walls were covered with battle- 
flags that told of many an historical sea-fight, and 
still farther on a long row of crumbling halls and 
houses known as the "old quarters." Marryat 
learned, upon inquiry, that these "old quarters" 
formerly had been the barracks of Fort Severn,, 
and an octagonal building that had been raised 
over the old parapets was pointed out to him. 
This was now used as a gymnasium. 

A solid sea-wall skirted the river and harbor 
front, and jutting out from the angle was a crooked 
wharf leading past the boat-houses to the frigate 
"Santee." Moored alongside was the practice 
steamer, "Wyoming," and not far distant the- 
gunnery steamer, " Standish," flashed back the 
sunlight from her polished brass-work. Further 
out in the stream the monitor "Passaic" and 
the sailing-ship "Constellation" rode at anchor. 
A dozen steam-launches bobbed up and down at 
their moorings, as though eager to start away. 
Marryat and his companions could stand and ad- 
mire the fleet only from a distance ; but in imagina- 
tion they were running up the rigging and swing- 
ing on the lofty spars. Reluctantly they turned 
away and looked back through the many parks, 
drill-grounds, and quadrangles. They saw rows 
of captured cannon, an ugly-looking monitor, 
ships' figure-heads utilized as statues, a curious 
Japanese bell, and monuments which commemo- 
rated the glorious deeds of heroes. Then they sat 
on a rustic bench to rest, and listened to the band 
until the martial strains of " Hail Columbia " and 
the hauling down of the colors warned them that 
it was growing late. Tired as they were when they 
reached the hotel, Marryat and his friends did not 
go to bed that night until they had thoroughly 
discussed their respective chances of " donning the 
navy blue." 

Work began in earnest next day. Marryat's. 
credentials having been presented to the superin- 
tendent, he reported at the armory for examina- 
tion. Four days were taken up by the mental) 
examination, five hours each day, the alternate 
days being devoted to re-examining those who- 
failed in the first trials. Marryat's competitive ex- 
amination had prepared him in a measure for the 
work, but he found this ordeal much more diffi- 
cult. Out of eighty-four applicants, forty were 
found to be mentally qualified. Marryat was 
among the lucky number. The successful candi- 
dates were then examined physically by the doctors, 
and all except two passed. It was with the air of a 
conquering hero that Marryat hastened to the tele- 
graph office and sent a message to his father 
announcing his success. 

In due time Marryat received an answer — a 
money order for two hundred dollars. The regu- 



lations of the Naval Academy required a deposit 
of this amount with the paymaster, to purchase 
the necessary outfit of clothing, books, and other 
authorized articles. He was then required to sign 
an agreement to serve in the navy for eight years 
(including his time at the Naval Academy), unless 
sooner discharged. A village notary with due 
solemnity administered the oath. These formali- 
ties over, Marryat was no longer Master Brown, 
dependent upon his father for bed and board, but 
Naval Cadet Brown, drawing a salary of five 
hundred dollars a year. 

During September, the upper classmen were on 
furlough, and the " plebes" were quartered on the 
" Santee," the old frigate that had looked so formid- 
able to Marryat, and with it he soon became 
familiar. The greatest inconvenience was sleeping 
in a hammock, and Marryat for some time could 
not become reconciled to the loss of his "four- 
poster." However, there was little time for regret. 
Squad drill began at once, three hours of each 
day being given to converting the awkward boys 
into soldierly cadets ; or, 
as an old sailor put it, to 
" getting the hay-seed 
out of their hair." 

Marryat's happiness 
was not complete until, 
after many delays for fit- 
ting and altering, the uni- 
forms were served out. 
They were certainly very 
neat. The full-dress suit 
was of dark-blue cloth, 
the jacket, a brass-but- 
toned, double-breasted 
"round-about," havinga 
standing collar trimmed 
with gold lace and em- 
broidered with two gold 
anchors. The undress 
suit consisted of a navy- 
blue blouse trimmed 
with lustrous black braid, 
and trousers of the same 
material. The blue cap, 
worn with each suit, was 
set off by a gold cord 
and an embroidered an- 
chor. The plain canvas 

working-suits were not so attractive. An over- 
coat for winter, and white duck trousers for 
summer completed the outfit, with all of which 
it is hardly necessary to say that Marryat was 
very much pleased. 

With October came the beginning of the new 
term, and Marryat's impressions at that time were 

set forth in a letter to his father, from which we 
give a few extracts : 

" I am now comfortably settled in my quar- 
ters," he wrote, "and ready to begin hard 
study. My room-mate is Fred Daily, who is also 
from Wisconsin. We became friends from the 
time that we discovered we were from the same 
State, and when we were given the privilege of 
choosing our own room-mates we determined to 
pull together. 

" Last Saturday was a busy day. All hands 
returned from leave, and the work of organization 
began. The cadets are divided into four divisions. 
One division is quartered at the old buildings, and 
three in the new building. Daily and I are in the 
first division, which occupies the first floor. We 
are under the eyes of the cadet-officers of the divis- 
ion, — the ' stripers,' as they are called, — who room 
on the same floor with us and are responsible for 
order. In addition, an upper-classman is detailed 
each day to keep a still closer watch over us. All 
this makes the discipline very strict. 

"We are very well provided for by the com- 
missary. I can not complain of the food ; it is 
plain, but wholesome. The mess-hall reminds me 
of the dining-room at a large hotel, but an ordinary 
landlord would be driven wild by three hundred 
boys all talking at the same time. Yet at the tap of 
the bell you could hear a pin drop, until the order 




'rise ' causes each chair to shoot back with a part- 
ing rattle, and we march out in strict military 
fashion. An upper-classman is alwa\-s on hand 
to spot you if you unbend. 

" This system of spotting lies at the bottom of 
all the discipline. A record of all offenses is kept, 
and demerits are given, in a big or little dose, 


according to the gravity of the offense. Less than 
eight demerits for any one month puts you in the 
first conduct-grade and entitles you to certain 
privileges. From that to the fourth, or lowest, 
grade is a steady descent, and when you get 
twenty demerits you have sunk as low as possible." 

Colonel Brown was very much pleased to see 
that Marryat seemed to find his new life congenial. 

Marryat having now become a full-fledged cadet, 
we need no longer regard him as a special charge, 
but can turn our attention to naval cadets in 

* Outside of the technical studies, the course of 
instruction at the Naval Academy is comprehended 
in the one word, " Math." " Math" is the cadets' 
abbreviation for mathematics, the rock upon which 
many an aspirant for naval honors is wrecked. Of 
course there is instruction in other branches — mod- 
ern languages, English studies, natural sciences, 
etc. — but a cadet soon realizes that the great 
stepping-stone is mathematics. When a graduate 
looks back upon what he has passed through, his 
most vivid recollections are of this hydra-headed 
" Math " ; of the algebra and geometry that wor- 
ried him as a "plebe," and of the applied me- 
chanics that took away half the pleasure of his 

senior year. What a struggle it was to weed out 
all youthful imagination from the mind, and to 
plant there only those ideas that could be expressed 
in mathematical formulae! And yet "Math's" 
importance is not overrated, for it is the ground- 
work of many of the professional studies. Naval 
Architecture, which teaches the cadets how to 
design and build a ship ; Navigation, which teaches 
them how to guide this ship across the trackless 
ocean ; Ordnance, which teaches them the methods 
of constructing and using the great guns; Steam 
Engineering, which teaches them the many appli- 
cations of that great motive power — all require a 
thorough knowledge of mathematics. 

While the theoretical part of the education may 
prove irksome to those who are filled with a spirit 
of adventure, — who might have succeeded better 
in the days of the old navy, when there was wider 
scope for such temperaments, — these will find the 
practical instructions more to their liking. Here 
they can satisfy their longing to hang by their 
heels on a 1 oyal-yard, or to put a pistol shot through 
a wooden soldier at twenty paces. These drills 
are based on the general principle that before a 
cadet can become an officer he must be thoroughly 
familiar with all the duties of those who will be 
under his command. The only way to attain this 
familiarity is by actually performing these duties 
in every detail. 

The drills afloat, in which there is quite a large 
fleet engaged, are particularly novel and interest- 
ing. Every Saturday the cadets embark on the 
" Wyoming," a ship-rigged steamer, and make a 
cruise in the bay. They do all the work. Down in 
the fire-room some of them are heaving coal into 
the roaring furnaces, others are in the engine- 
room looking out for all the machinery. On deck, 
youthful sailors are running up and down the rig- 
ging, ready, at the call of the boatswain's pipe, to 
handle the light spars or heavy sails. In a good 
working breeze the engines are stopped and the 
upper-classmen are given an opportunity of hand- 
ling the ship under sail — tacking, wearing, and 
other evolutions being carried out under their 
orders. At other times, a target is moored at some 
distance and the cadets are exercised in firing the 
broadside and pivot guns. But the " Wyoming's" 
" smooth-bore " guns are out of date ; so the stanch 
little steamer, " Standish," has been fitted out with 
two comparatively modern rifled guns, and is sent 
out for practice every afternoon. Moreover, since 
iron and steel ships have replaced wooden vessels, 
the iron-clad monitor "Passaic," whose turret still 
shows traces of the battering that she received at 
Charleston during the rebellion, has been added to 
the fleet, and also cruises in the Chesapeake, crawl- 
ing along like an immense turtle and making the 



! 93 

earth tremble with the roar of her fifteen-inch 
guns. Again, while the larger vessels are quietly 
riding at anchor, the " mosquito fleet," the steam 
launches and pulling boats, come out into the 
stream, and dart hither and thither in obedience to 
signals ; now in line, then in column, the cadets 
directing the helms, running the engines, or man- 
ning the oars. One launch, from the bow of which 
a long spar protrudes, cruises by herself, and 
there is some doubt as to what she is trying to do ; 
but when the end of the spar drops and the water 
is violently uplifted in a seething mass of spray 
and foam, every one knows that a torpedo has 
been exploded. The cutters have more peaceful 
missions, as they glide along under the steady 
clicking of the oars, or rise and fall with each 
puff of wind that fills their flowing sails. 

When springtime comes, the drills on shore 
are unusually attractive. What a pretty sight the 
battalion of infantry makes, as the long line of 
blue uniforms, white leggins, and flashing mus- 
kets passes by, — andean anything be more exciting 
than the grand charge of the light artillery, 
when the platoons rush down the hill, wheel about, 
fire a broadside, and dismount and disperse before 
the smoke has cleared away? At the ranges, one 

shells toward the sky and drops them far out in the 
bay. In the machine shops one class is busy at 
the lathes, turning out working models of marine 
engines ; or hard at work with hammers and rivet- 
ing tools, putting patches on an old boiler that, 
owing to the large number of these additions, has 
little of the original shell left. The rigging loft is 

can see groups banging away with muskets and 
revolvers at the battered targets, or turnirfg the 
cranks of Catling and Hotchkiss guns which pour 
forth a shower of bullets; while down by the sea- 
wall a thundering mortar hurls its screeching 

occupied by the " plebes," who are there initiated 
into the mysteries of knotting, splicing, and other 
"knacks" of the seaman's craft. Boxing, fen- 
cing, broadswords, gymnastics, and dancing take 
place in the armory and gymnasium. 

Due attention is also given to the physical devel- 
opment of the cadets. In athletic sports, boating, 
of course, comes first ; but base-ball, foot-ball, 
lawn-tennis, and other field sports of the "land- 
lubbers" are not despised. On Thanksgiving Day 
a field tournament is held, an amusing feature of 
which is chasing the greased pig. The latter 
ought to be considered as a purely naval pastime, 
when it is remembered that salt pork is so regu- 
lar a ration in the sailor's mess afloat. The tour- 
naments in the gymnasium, which generally take 
place on the anniversary of the battle of New 
Orleans, are fine exhibitions of muscular strength, 
and the contestants show that they are as much at 
home on the flying rings as on the flying jib-boom. 

The hops are the chief amusement on Saturday 
nights. The gymnasium is decorated with flags 




and bunting, the music is entrancing, brass but- 
tons shine everywhere, and the "sisters, cousins, 
and aunts," with true Pinaforean devotion, flock 
to the scene of gayety. At the "stag," the cadets 
dance among themselves, and the most awkward 
youths pluck up enough courage to appear 
on such occasions, in the vain hope that they 
may overcome natural timidity and bud forth, in 
due time, as society men. The great "stag" 
event is the annual masquerade, when the fun is 

Four years of these studies, drills, and amuse- 
ments make up the naval cadet's life at Annapolis. 
The only break is the annual summer cruise and 
the September furlough. The practice ships sail 
with the classes on board, in June, and after a long 
stay at sea put into Portsmouth, N. H., to give the 
cadets a run on shore, and to lay in fresh provisions 
forthe return passage. Oneclass remains at Annap- 

ships of the navy, where their training is contin- 
ued. The full course thus extends through six 

This long course of preparation has had its 
natural results. The day of the midshipmite is 
passed, and his mantle has not fallen on the naval 
cadet. A boy can not enter the Naval Academy 
until he is fourteen, and at that age Farragut and 
Lord Nelson were knocking about on board ship, 
picking up what technical education they could in 
the rough school of experience. With the advance 
of science in naval warfare, the forcing process 
of education has changed the free-lance of the 
forecastle, who had no ideas beyond making a 
"long splice" or brandishing a cutlass, into a 
mathematical prodigy, with a weakness for "tan- 
gential strains " and " curves of pressure." Con- 
gress has been tinkering with the subject of naval 
education for a great many years. Its last enact- 

olis during the summer, and is kept busy at 
practical exercises, studies being suspended. But 
even when the four years have slipped by, naval 
cadets are not yet freed, from the trammels of 
school, for the law requires that they shall then 
perform two years' sea-service in the cruising 

ment was to abolish midshipmen altogether and to 
distribute the fresh material on a new plan. " Here- 
after," said the law-makers, " there shall be no 
appointments of cadet-midshipmen at the Naval 
Academy; but in lieu thereof all the undergradu- 
ates shall be called naval cadets, and from those 



who successfully complete the six years' course 
appointments shall be made to fill vacancies in the 
lower grades of the line and engineer corps of the 
navy and of the marine corps. These appoint- 
ments shall be made in the order of merit, as 
determined by the Academic Board of the Naval 
Academy. At least ten appointments must be 
made each year. Those who do not receive ap- 
pointments shall be given a certificate of gradu- 
ation and honorable discharge, and one year's 
pay ($1000)." This is the law as it now stands. 

It will be seen that, after all, our young friend 
Marryat Brown, of whom we took leave some time 
ago, is not sure of a place on the navy-list. Should 
he, however, graduate with distinction, after six 
years of hard study, there will be three positions 
open to him — " the lower grade of the line, and 
■engineer corps, and of the marine corps." Some- 
times, as a special reward, the cadet who graduates 
at the head of his class is sent to the Royal Navy 
College at Greenwich, England, for a two years' 
■course preparatory to receiving an appointment as 
naval architect. The lowest grade of the line is 
that of ensign ; the highest that of admiral. In 
the staff corps the lowest grade is that of assistant- 
engineer, and the highest that of chief engineer. 
The grades in the marine corps are similar to 
those in the regular army. The pay, while at sea, 
of an ensign is $1200 a year; of an assistant-en- 
gineer, $1700; and of a second-lieutenant in the 
marine corps, $1400. 

Here, then, is an opportunity for Marryat to 
step into a comfortable life-position, without the 

struggle that most college graduates have to un- 
dergo before they are able to practice their profes- 
sions with profit. He is self-supporting from the 
first, and can throw all his energy into the work 
before him. Whether he will be successful or 
not rests with himself alone, but it will be well for 
him to bear in mind that the laggards are sum- 



marily dismissed. Let us hope he will show due 
appreciation of his country's generosity, and that 
if it be his fortune to be called upon to battle for 
her he will serve her faithfully and well. 

\ ^f\^^fe 


By Professor Frederick Starr. 

Well, boys and girls, here is a picture for you. 
What is it ? I did not know at first. I thought it 
was a picture some artist had painted, which had 
been photographed. But it is more remarkable 
than such a picture would be. I think it one of 
the most wonderful things I saw in Florida. 

In that warm land, where ice is so desirable for 
cooling food and drink, it is not naturally formed, 
and so must be made. I visited an ice-factory yes- 
terday. The process of ice-making is simple and 

interesting. It depends upon the principle that gas 
in expanding, like liquids in evaporating, draws 
heat from neighboring bodies. First, a great basin 
of brick-work and metal is built. This is filled 
with brine. A frame-work just above the basin 
supports a large number of metal tanks, which 
reach down into and are surrounded on all sides by 
the brine. At this factory I think there were one 
hundred of these tanks. Each is shaped like a 
brick, and is perhaps one foot wide, two feet long, 
and four feet deep. When in position they are 
like bricks set up on end with a little space be- 
tween each one and its neighbors. Wooden covers 
fit over the tops. Of course, brine surrounds them 
all, and a coil of iron tubes passes everywhere 
through this brine and around the tanks, on every 
side, and below. The tanks are filled with per- 
fectly pure water. The coils of tubes are filled 
with condensed ammonia gas. This gas expands 
rapidly, and while expanding draws heat from the 
brine. The cold salt-water surrounding the tanks, 
in turn draws heat from the water within, until 
a solid brick-shaped block of clear ice is formed 
by the freezing of the water in each tank. The 
ammonia gas is collected after use, condensed 
under pressure by an engine, cooled and may 
then be used again. 

I saw the process of lifting one of the tanks. They 
seized it with a hoisting-machine, raised it from the 
brine, lowered it carefully into warm water, to loosen 
the cake of ice from the sides of the tank, lifted it 
andslid out a great four-hundred-pound cake of ice, 
so clear and transparent that one could read small 
print through a foot of it. 

They have twenty tons of ice forming here, all 
the time. They lift a tank every thirty minutes, 
take out the ice, refill the tank with water and 
replace it. The freezing takes forty-eight hours. 
The tank they have just emptied will be filled soon, 
and a new block of ice will be taken from it on " the 
day after to-morrow." 

Now, it seems that this freezing takes place so 
gently that a spray of roses may be put into a tank 
of water and frozen into the mass of ice without 
stirring a petal from its place. There it lies im- 



bedded, in all its beauty of form and color — a in ice reminds me of the old mammoth and the 
marvellous thing, I think. The ice-makers like to woolly rhinosceros in the Siberian ice-blocks, 
perform this experiment, as it shows the clearness You have read of them in St. Nicholas? They 
of their ice ; and pride is taken in freezing pieces of were specimens that had been kept for hundreds 
unusual beauty and transparency. 

A delicate spray of flowers, a 
cluster of ripe fruit, or a brilliant- 
colored fish are favorite subjects. 
Exhibitions of such freezings are oc- 
casionally made at fairs, and a par- 
ticularly beautiful or interesting 
piece makes a very attractive gift 
for a birthday or for Christmas. 

What a pretty way to preserve ob- 
jects ! I would like a collection of 
Florida specimens so preserved. 
No dried-out herbarium specimens ; 
no faded and distorted alcoholic pre- 
parations ; no unnatural taxider- 
mist mounts, but everything in its 
natural color, its perfect outline, its living beauty. 
Here, a clear little block with a chameleon ; here, a 
larger one with a coiled rattlesnake ; there a young 
alligator, a cluster of grape- fruit or oranges, a spray 
of flowers or a series of forest-leaves. But, alas ! 
such a collection would not last a single week. 

Nature, herself, sometimes makes such prepara- 

'I lil \\\ lil III nr 

tions, but neither often nor everywhere. My rose 


of years in that cold climate. So perfectly pre- 
served were they, that the flesh, the hair, the skin, 
the eyeballs, were not decayed. 

Perhaps such a collection of Florida specimens 
might be kept in Siberia, in some cold corner of 
that desolate land, but here the rose in ice gives 
us but a transitory delight and then is gone 


Bv Helen Gray Cone. 

In a fresh little, feathery, fluffy white coat, 
An egotist Snow-flake from heaven did float ; 

And he sighed to his fellows, — a similar 
throng, — 
" Seems to me there 's a sameness in falling so 
long ! 

" I am tired of this tingle and chill ; I desire — " 
(They shuddered to hear him) " a room with a 
fire ; 

He had sunk past the roof, with its chimneys 

like hats, 
Of the Warwickshire-Walsingham-Warburton 


A ninth-story window was open — one puff 
Of the wind, as he reached it, was impulse 

He alighted within with a rapturous thrill, 
But he very soon after began to feel ill. 

A tiger-skin rug and a Japanese screen, 

And some chocolate to drink, and a nice maga 

Soon his liquid remains like a tear-drop were 

On the well-printed page of the nice magazine ; 

And a caller, observing, remarked in sad tones, 
How affecting the stories of Jane Johnson Jones ! " 


oCM y fun&iP&y r -J/onkjey': 

tgr JEtmilie JPoulsSon : ** 

shadoufd Jv>rtf\ in divers pictures by 

j\. sturdy little .DonKey, 
All dressed in Sober i|ray, 

n^e taoK it in his long-eared, head 
-thcit he Would run aWay. 

y^o, when a little open. 
He saw th e stable door, 

le ran as \P he never would 
Come hatK tKere anv more. 





< ~Zi\.\^BLy tKat^Donkey galloped L 
,y\jid ran and ran ana ran 
jVnel ran and ran and ran and rein 

-AW Ran and RAn and RAN! 






pp JBehind him ran ft? Children^ 
J 11t? Grroom and Coachman , too; '/-^ ' 
^ Tlf Farmer and tff farmer's man, i Xv 

////To See what they eould^ do. ^ jj I \ y§ 

"' / ■**-. if. -•' 

pome carried whips to whip^him, 
Some , oats to coax: .him. near $ 
* Some called 'Come, ^here you. fooUhh beast ! '' 
j\nd Some , 'Come , Barney, dea-rV" 1 



JBut not a. whit cared .Barney 

Kr cross or coaxing word •, 

6 And clatter, clatter, clatter" Still, 

His little hoofs were heard. 

And all across tlv TmeacSow, 

And uf and cPer th e hill , 
~- 7 And through tff woods and down th dale 

'V^He galloped witk a will . 




A.nd into every hayfieM tKrou^li tlf $>vamp and mire 
^tiHI Barney ran and rem \ and ran. ,^ ;.,^§&Sj! 
J\$ it he'd. never tire J •' ::'¥ f ^^^8 




.HL-iS chasers all stopped. running 
Then meeit as any •lamb'tl^^^^^ 
-Did Barney stand a£ ip '-'to' V$ay\,J 
Come catcK me ! here I- am f 

mt when one of* them ■ $t arte|t : >^.|-| 
T-hen .Barney started, too • ■<*J&'Wt 

10 A.S iP th e chase had just Jiejnm. 1 
Away he SwirTty fiew . « 




JBut there's an end to all things , 
And $0, (Of Stupid elP) 
11 "When no one else could capture him 
This donRey cau6ht him Self . 

ror, running m th barnyard , 
He didf not calculate 
l 2 - What consequences would berall , 

.And (hit, the SwindmS pate • 

It cujickly s^vun6 together, 
|('l/l/ JD own J ^dropped th 8 iron latch 
'(M 1 J_0, Barney Qray ! to think that 

The ^runaway Should Catch! 




1 4- *]phe 



. Had 
ts For 


Children danced with pleasure, 
Groom roared with delight , 
Others smiled. ..their broadest Smiles 
laugheci^with tlAU ^ their jru^ht . | * 

Barney, "naughty Barney, 
mischieP in him still 
when tli lau6him«5 Coachman tried 
lead, him up th e hill 

His donkey&hip determine a. 

That he •would, -yet have fan 
16 &o traced , himselp and stood st 
T /k .As lip he f- weighed a \ ton ! 

iff 1 j^ A - J'M^ihm 


J U D 

^ ^frBut mighty was th e Coachnmia 
^■'*C?y\? d puffed with Su£h u will ' v|V/> 

:; "#-^n1Kat E arn< y soon wa$ heir<£ dragged T;«g 

V Jbull roughly 



« Well, well P" 1 at last thought B"™^ 
.„ ' Tlf Coachman is So $tfroT\d 

I mioht ai well he 6ood'ju$t now,' 
And S>o he w&SKed cllond- 

■ i/f 

..Jin a. 

id when, he reached trf stable 
.'Ajnd Stood within W stall , 
I I'; 7 / iff/^ovCAi scarce believe So meelC a ]beast 
;Z' C^oula 'run aw*y , '&t aP 

\Mq OP this same JBarnev CfT£cy 
fvli-Are only- °f Some fu£u.T*fc " cKeunO 

"W"Hcri ne may T*«.n <twi\y S*~^5 

Vol. XVI.— 20. 

[Copyright, 188S, by John H. Jewett. All rights reserved. 


ROM the top of the hill behind Runwild Terrace, 
where the Bunny family lived, there was a charm- 
ing view of all the country for miles around. 

Bunnyboy and Browny had often taken their little 
sisters, Pinkeyes and Cuddledown, to the very high- 
est point, where they could look over the tops of the 
houses and trees on every side, and see more pretty 
hills and valleys and glistening rivers and ponds than 
they could count in a whole day. 
Away off in the distance, farther than they had ever been 
in their lives, they could see where the blue sky seemed to 
come down to meet the ground, and they used to wonder who 
lived over there, so near the golden sunsets. 
As Bunnyboy grew older, he -began to boast about what he knew, 
\- ^ylj-., -'.'•, .■' ' and what he had seen, or done, and sometimes about things he only made believe 

.' , ' he knew, and had never done or seen at all. 

He may have fancied others would think he was very wise if he talked "big," for he had not 
then learned how silly boasting sounds, or why those who are really wise are always modest in speaking 
of what they know or can do. 

Another thing Bunnyboy did not know, was that boasting leads to lying, and telling lies is sure, some 
day, to end in trouble and shame. 

Bunnyboy soon found out about these things, in a way which made him remember the lesson as 
long as he lived. 



One pleasant afternoon in the early summer, all 
the Bunny children had climbed the hill and were 
watching a lovely sunset, when Cuddledown asked 
him how many miles it was to sundown. 

Bunnyboy said it was not as far as it looked, and 
that he had walked farther than that one day when 
he went to the circus with Cousin Jack. 

Cuddledown said she would like to look over the 
edge, where the sky came down, and see what was 
on the other side, where the sun stayed at night. 

Then Bunnyboy very boastfully said he would 
take her there some day, and show her the beauti- 
ful place where the fields all shone like gold, and 
the rivers like silver, and all the rest was just like 
a rainbow place, all the time. 

Little Cuddledown believed everything Bunny- 
boy said, because he was older ; and though he for- 
got all about his boasting before they went home, 
she remembered it and often thought about it after- 

One day, when the other bunnies were away, she 
asked her mother whether she might go out to 
see the rainbow place where the sun went down. 

Mother Bunny thought she meant only to climb 
the hill behind the house, and told her she might 

Off started Cuddledown, thinking, in her own 
brave little way, she could go to the edge of the 
world and get back before tea-time, because Bun- 
nyboy had been farther than that, and had said it 
was not as far as it seemed to be. 

In a little while the others came home, and the 
mother, hearing them at play on the lawn, supposed 
Cuddledown was with them until an hour or two 
had passed and they came in to tea without her. 

When she asked for Cuddledown and was told 
they had not seen her, Bunnyboy was sent to the 
hill to bring her home, but soon returned saying 
she was not there. 

Then the family were alarmed, and all went out 
to look for her in the neighborhood, but every- 
where they were told the same story, " No one had 
seen Cuddledown that afternoon." 

When evening grew dark, and they could not 
find her, they began to fear she had lost her way 
and was wandering about the fields or woods 
alone in the darkness, or that perhaps she had 
fallen into some stream and been drowned. 

The kind neighbors came out with lanterns to 
help them search for her, while Cousin Jack did 
the best thing he could do, by climbing the hill 
and building a bright fire on the top, that she 
might see the light and come that way, if she was 
anywhere near the village. 

All the long night they searched near and far, 
and when morning came they had found no trace 
of the lost Cuddledown. 

A sadder family or a more anxious party of 
friends never saw the sun rise to help them, and 
without stopping, except to take a hasty breakfast, 
they kept on looking for her in every place where 
a little Bunny-child might be lost. 

Some went tramping through the woods, shout- 
ing her name and looking behind the fallen trees, 
and in the ditches, while ot